


Say It Now

by eternaleponine



Series: Ghosts That We Knew [25]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 58
Words: 179,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>So tell me it hurts, tell me it burns,</i><br/>Tell me it's love and that you're ready to fall<br/>Into my arms or into the ground,<br/>It's lost or it's found,<br/>Whatever you need to say, say it now.<br/>- We the Kings, Say It Now<br/> <br/><b>Avengers High School AU</b></p><p>This is the third and final installment of the story begun in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/531381/chapters/942536">Ghosts That We Knew</a> and continued in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/951779/chapters/1861493">Time for a Sign</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_You look terrible,_ Natasha signed after handing Clint a cup of coffee. He had his own in a travel mug, but he didn't object, just took it and cradled it between his palms. It wasn't cold out; it wasn't even anything close to cold out. The high was supposed to be somewhere around 90, like summer wasn't quite ready to be done with them yet.

Technically, summer wasn't over for another three weeks, but for all intents and purposes it was over for them. He'd gotten up early that morning to avoid the chaos that the first day of school would almost certainly be, and had been out the door as Mrs. Sullivan was calling up to the younger boys that it was time to get up. She'd looked at him strangely but hadn't said anything beyond, "Have a good day."

 _Did you not sleep?_ , she asked when he didn't respond. 

Clint shrugged. He hadn't slept very well. Every time he'd closed his eyes, his thoughts had started swirling, and he'd given up and opened them again, trying to focus on some mundane detail – the small crack in the ceiling that was probably nothing to worry about, the fact that his closet door didn't shut all the way – but none of it did much to slow his thoughts.

Natasha looked at him, her forehead furrowing, then grabbed his arm and led him out of the lobby and down the hallway where the business classrooms were. No one ever went down that hallway anyway, unless they were unlucky enough to have their locker assigned there. She took his coffee from him and set it on the floor carefully. _Talk to me._

 _I don't know what to say,_ he replied. 

_Did you not sleep?_ , she asked, then waved her hand, dismissing the question. _Bad dreams?_

He shook his head. _I didn't even get to the point where I could have dreams, bad or otherwise._

 _Why didn't you call me? Or text me,_ she asked.

_I didn't want to wake you up. I thought at least one of us deserved to get some sleep before the big day._

The sound that she made was remarkably unladylike. _Big day. It's just the first day of school._

_The first day of senior year._

_So? We still have to get through the year before it matters._

She had a point, he guessed, but he just shrugged. He was only making it through one day at a time at this point.

 _Are things still bad at home? ___

He shrugged again, and the glare she leveled at him then was enough to make him take half a step back. 

_Don't,_ she snapped, the sound of her hands colliding audible. _Don't lie to me, don't act as if it doesn't matter._

 _It **doesn't** matter,_ Clint said defensively. _I can't change it, so it doesn't matter. It's not my problem._

 _Like Jessica isn't my problem?_ , Natasha countered. _Your foster brothers and parents aren't your problem like my foster sister isn't mine?_

It was the first time he remembered Natasha actually referring to Jessica as her sister, although maybe it had happened once or twice before. But it was true enough, wasn't it? They were friends, of a kind, but it was more than that. They sure as hell could fight like sisters, and got on each other's nerves like he and Barney had used to. 

He missed his brother, all of a sudden. He missed a life that made sense... or at least didn't make sense in a way that he understood. He missed knowing what he was supposed to be doing, and being able to get it done and done right like he never could with anything in school. No matter how hard he tried, it wasn't quite up to snuff, it felt like. 

_You and Jessica ..._ But he didn't know. Are close? They weren't. Not always. Get along? Only sometimes. _It's just different._

 _Maybe,_ Natasha said. _But it's still where you live, who you live with. It's still part of your life and it still affects you. Pretending it doesn't..._ She made a gesture that wasn't a sign, but Clint figured it translated to something along the lines of, 'You're an idiot, Clint Barton, and I'm kind of sick of your shit.'

Yeah. He was kind of sick of his shit, too, but he was also kind of stuck with it.

 _Did something happen with Jessica?_ , he asked, not even pretending not to be changing the topic. _Is she flipping out?_

_A little,_ Natasha said, but her eyes were narrowed because she could see right through him. _She doesn't want to be here without Carol. She thinks maybe we would all be better off just finishing school not _at_ school, but obviously that didn't go over very well with Mr. Principal Fury._ Her smile was crooked, slightly wry.

_What did he say to her?_

_That she'd made it through a year already, and she could make it through another. That she and Carol hadn't even had classes together, so really, it wouldn't be that much different. She could always see her after school, as long as it didn't conflict with Carol's classes or work, and as long as she kept up with her homework._

_Do you think they will?_ , Clint asked. _Keep seeing each other?_

Another sound, somewhere between laughter and contempt. _They just got together a few weeks ago – I guess almost two months now – but after how many months of going around and around each other? They're not going to throw that away now. If they do, they're idiots._

_Okay, true._

_Honestly, I expect that Carol will practically move in,_ Natasha said. _She's already over all the time. I don't think she likes being at home much._

_Do you think Mr. Fury will let her?_

It was Natasha's turn to shrug, but for her it wasn't to dodge answering a question that she would rather avoid. _I don't know. Probably not, but there's not really a lot that he can do to keep her from coming over every day. Even if he said that she couldn't, do you think they would listen?_

The bell rang, signaling that it was time for them to start heading for their homerooms. Natasha sighed. _Don't think I didn't notice that you didn't really answer me,_ she said. _Let me see your schedule._

He handed it to her, and she held it up next to hers. _Anything?_

 _We have Civics together,_ she said, _and English. We have lunch together._ Natasha flashed him a smile. _And it looks like we've got drama together. I didn't know you were going to take that._

 _I needed an art credit,_ Clint said. _I didn't know you were taking it either._

 _Same. Well, I'll see you third period for history,_ she said. Her eyes flicked one way, then the other, but there was still no one else in the hallway. She pushed herself up on her toes and kissed his temple. _Try not to fall asleep._

Clint smiled. _I'll try. See you later._

She waved and went to join the rest of the student body as they made their way through congested halls. He looked at the knots of students going past the end of the hallway, then behind him at the door that would take him back outside. He could just go home... or, no, he couldn't, because Mrs. Sullivan would probably be there. He could go somewhere, though. Maybe find Carol, see what she was up to, or Steve.

Maybe see where the circus was, figure out if there was a way to get in contact with his brother. Not for now, but for later, when he needed a place to go. It would happen eventually, and he'd blown it once, but family was family and Barney would get over it eventually, if he wasn't already. After all, Barney couldn't really fault him for wanting to stay behind because of a pretty girl, could he?

Or maybe he could. 

What would Natasha do, though, when he didn't turn up in history class? She would be fine without him, obviously, but she might worry. He could always text her, let her know that he was leaving. He could tell her that something had come up, that he'd had to go home, there was an emergency...

He slammed on the brakes of that train of thought. _Clinton Francis Barton, don't be an idiot,_ he told himself. _You've never lied to her before – at least not intentionally – and now is _not_ the time to start._

He looked down at his schedule. Math. It should be a crime to put any math classes during first period, he decided, but he trudged toward it anyway. His homeroom was in the same direction, and once he'd checked in for the day, he would be less likely – probably – to decide to check out. 

The first two periods crawled by, and he wondered if teachers of seniors were given some sort of script that they were supposed to follow when giving their "Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life" speech. This is your last year blah blah college applications blah blah blah not time to slack of blah make it count blah blah blah blah blah blah.

Which was pretty much what it sounded like to Clint, because both teachers decided that it would be a good idea to pace up and down the aisles while talking, turning their heads this way and that to make sure that every single student knew that they were being addressed, which meant that the sound warped and sometimes disappeared altogether for Clint. Weren't they supposed to get some kind of memo about him?

Fuck it, what did he care? None of this mattered anyway.

When the bell rang signaling the end of second period, he was the first one out the door. He made his way through the halls quickly, already on edge and knowing the clamor of several hundred kids surrounding him would only make it worse. 

"Clint!" He stopped at the sound of his name, causing the person who'd been calling it to almost crash into his back. It was only highly trained reflexes that made her side-step at the last second. "I've been calling you," she said.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking the screen for missed calls.

Bobbi laughed. "I meant just now. Your name."

"Oh. I'm not..." Clint just tapped his hearing aid and shrugged. 

"Right," Bobbi said. "I didn't even think about that. I forget sometimes."

"Lucky you."

She smiled wryly. "Lucky me," she agreed. "Where are you headed?"

"Civics," Clint said. "Whatever the hell that is."

"I think it's the more practical applications of government," Bobbi said. "Like, not the history of government but how it applies to life now or something. Pretty sure on the first day they have you fill out voter registration cards."

"I can hardly wait," Clint said. "What about you?"

"Calculus," she said. "Can you tell how excited I am?" She made a face that was so over-the-top fake-excited that he couldn't help smiling. "I know math is important, but you hit a certain point and you start to think, 'You know, I think you're making this up. I don't think this is real.' And then it's _not_ real, because they start talking about imaginary numbers, and it's all downhill from there."

"Imaginary numbers? Really?"

"Really. When's your lunch?"

"Fifth."

"Too bad. Mine's sixth. I'll see you around." 

And then she was off, and Clint saw Natasha coming around the corner and caught up with her. "Are you _sure_ we have to go?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Pretty sure."

"How sure?"

" _Really_ pretty sure." It was a line from a show they'd watched, which had given them both nightmares at least a few times, and yet they hadn't stopped until things just went completely over the top. 'Jumping the shark,' Carol had called it, but hadn't been able to explain why.

"All right." They found seats next to each other, and thankfully when the teacher came in he didn't decide to rearrange them all in alphabetical order or something. Clint hated teachers who did that; it meant he was inevitably right in the front. Which was probably good, except it was hard to ignore everything when the teacher was right in your face.

"Hey, everyone," the teacher said. "I'm Mr. Lawton, and I'm new here this year. I'll tell you right up front that I have only been teaching for a few years, but if you think you're going to walk all over me, you might want to think again. This class can be as boring or as fun as you want it to be. If you don't participate, it's probably going to be boring. If you do, there's a lot more of a chance that one, you won't be bored to tears, and two, you'll actually get something out of it."

He walked up to the board and took out a marker, scrawling in letters at least two feet high a single word: RESPECT.

"This is my only rule," he said. "We can break it down into a whole bunch of other smaller rules if you really want to, or if I feel that we need to, but it all comes down to this." He tapped the board. "Respect. Respect me. Respect each other. Respect each other's opinions. No matter how wrong you think someone is, they have the right to believe what they do. They have to right to express it. You have the right to be upset by it, and to present your own opinion, your own counter-argument, but you must do so respectfully. Anything less and you will find yourself having to deal with me, and if that's not enough, the principal. Is that understood?"

Everyone nodded or mumbled something in the affirmative. "Good. Now, first thing's first." He took a stack of cards from his desk and began handing them out. "Many of you will be turning eighteen this year," he said. "That means you can legally vote. In order to vote, however, you need to be registered. This is a voter registration card. Fill it out and I will return them."

Natasha looked down at hers and pushed it to the edge of her desk. When Mr. Lawton came around to collect them again, he looked at the blank card. "Is there a problem?" he asked. 

"I am not American citizen," she said. "I cannot vote."

"Ah. Well, that would be a problem, yes." But he didn't ask any more questions, just picked up the card with the rest. 

Clint felt Natasha relax, even with the space between them. He looked at her but she didn't look back.

The rest of the class was spent going over the syllabus, reviewing what the major assignments would be for the semester (it was only a half-year course) and what they could expect each class. When the bell rang, they got up and left. 

"That could have been worse," Clint said, and Natasha nodded. 

It could have been worse, but it could have been better. English was better, but then Clint (along with a lot of the other students) had chosen their senior English electives by what they thought would require the least amount of work. Hence, Film as Literature.

"Is too bad Jessica is not in this class," Natasha said, looking over the sheet they'd been handed that listed the books they would read and the movies they would watch. She pointed to Harry Potter. 

Clint grinned. "Maybe we should convince her to switch."

"Or take next semester," Natasha said.

After English they had lunch, and even though it was almost too hot and humid to stand, they went outside, because being stuffed into a cafeteria crammed with other students was even less appealing than being steamed to death. 

They unpacked their lunches, sharing what they had between them, which was habit by now even though they weren't sharing because Natasha didn't actually have a lunch to eat. Sometimes what Clint got from the Sullivans wasn't all that exciting (but always nutritious – Mrs. Sullivan had even found healthy cookies, which was far as Clint was concerned was just plain _wrong_ ). Natasha usually had leftovers, as long as it was something that could be eaten cold.

 _It's not so bad,_ Natasha said. 

_What?_

_School._ But there was something in her face that turned the word into a question.

 _I guess not,_ Clint said. _I just... I feel like maybe I should be working. Making money is more important than watching movies and comparing them to books, you know?_

 _Money isn't everything,_ Natasha said. 

_It is when you don't have it._

She shrugged and let the argument – if it was even an argument – go. They ate in near silence, lost in their own thoughts. When the bell rang, Natasha looked up and started packing things away, in a hurry all of a sudden (although maybe it was justifiable since they only had a few minutes passing time between classes. _I'll see you later,_ she said, not even waiting for him.

Clint stared after her for a second, then picked up his backpack and headed to his next class.

He didn't see her again until last period: drama. Drama I, to be more precise, and second semester would be Drama II. The class was a mix of all grade levels, and Clint figured most of the people taking it were theater kids... but then maybe some of them just figured it would be a more interesting way to get their art credit.

A few seconds before the bell rang for the start of the period, a familiar figure came traipsing in, making a grand entrance as always. Loki.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Clint asked before he could stop himself. 

Loki turned and looked at him, one eyebrow arched. "Excuse me?"

Clint started to say he was sorry, but he really wasn't, and Loki didn't deserve an apology anyway. "I figured you would have taken this class when you were a freshman or something."

"It's only open to grades ten and up, for one, and for another, I had other classes that had to take precedence."

 _Great. Just our luck._ But Clint didn't have time to respond, because the teacher came in then, apologizing for being a few seconds late, and began class. 

About five minutes in, the stage door (as the class took place in the auditorium) banged open. "Yeah, thanks, I got it," a voice called from the wings, but seemed to be speaking to someone outside of the theater. "No, sure, thanks, buddy. Really appreciate it. Never could have figured it out without you."

And then the door banged again, and a boy, dark-skinned and muscular – came skidding out onto the stage, his entrance even grander than Loki's, although perhaps unintentionally so. "Hi," he said. "Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you." And he dumped himself into a seat and gestured to the teacher, who was staring at him, open-mouthed and gaping. Clint was pretty sure the technical (or at least British) term for the expression was 'gobsmacked'.

"Please," Sam said, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him, "go on."

Natasha tapped his arm, and when he looked she tilted her head in Loki's direction. He looked like he'd been fed a fistful of broken glass, and if looks could kill, Sam Wilson would be dead. Deader than dead.

He grinned at her and signed, _Looks like things just got interesting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm being deliberately vague about what schools they are going to, because I am lazy and didn't feel like doing the research. *g* Clint and Natasha didn't get into the same school, but both of their schools are in Boston. Bobbi is going to the Washington, D.C. area. You can draw your own conclusions from there. ♥


	2. Chapter 2

Clint was surprised (and surprised to find himself a little disappointed) that he didn't get a pass to go to the social worker's office during the first week of school. He told himself it was only because he liked the excuse to get out of class, but the truth was he had gotten used to having that one period a week where he could decompress and sometimes talk about the stuff that was going on that he didn't otherwise get a chance to say out loud, except maybe to Natasha but he didn't always want to burden her with all of the shit that was in his head.

But it wasn't a support group.

On Wednesday of the second week of school, though, a pass was handed to him during homeroom, summoning him to a meeting during seventh period. When he saw Natasha third period, he held it up to her in silent question, and she nodded. So it was a group meeting after all, and it wasn't just him being singled out.

"I wasn't sure it was going to continue," he said in a low voice. "Practically everyone's gone."

"I know," Natasha said. "But still, I think Mr. Coulson still hopes we will be something."

Before Clint could respond, class started, and they didn't pick up the thread of the conversation later. He guessed there probably wasn't a whole lot more to say. 

The day seemed both longer and shorter as he waited for seventh period to arrive. He went to class to show the teacher his pass, even though he was pretty sure that they were supposed to get something to let them know when students weren't going to be present. In his experience, they only received it (or paid attention) about half the time, so he'd gotten in the habit of checking in to avoid any drama. The last thing he needed was the Sullivans getting a call from the office saying that he was skipping class.

He was the first one to Mr. Coulson's office. The social worker smiled at him. "Come on in," he said. "Have a seat." He motioned to the couch that Clint and Natasha always shared, from the very first time they'd come into this room. "How was your summer?"

"Don't you want to save it for the group?" Clint asked, smiling.

Mr. Coulson laughed. "I suppose I should." He turned to look toward the door, presumably at a sound that Clint couldn't hear. 

"Am I late?" Bobbi asked, glancing at the clock.

"You're not late," Mr. Coulson said. "Anyway, I kind of expect that you'll be a few minutes after the bell."

Bobbi nodded and dumped herself onto the other end of the couch, sprawling for a moment in exaggerated exhaustion before gathering her limbs together again and sitting up straighter. "Hey," she said to Clint. "Fancy meeting you here."

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" he countered. 

"Apparently invoking the wrath of the Russian," Bobbi said. "Sorry, Natasha." She scooted over to the end of the couch to make room for Natasha in the middle.

_Everything okay?_ , Clint asked, seeing Natasha's cold stare.

_Fine,_ she signed back, but she didn't look fine, and he doubted that it was actually because Bobbi had kind of (but not really) taken her spot. 

_You sure?_

_Not now._

Jessica came in next, looking wary and yet slightly hopeful. The hope extinguished itself pretty quickly, and Clint thought maybe, somehow, she'd hoped that Carol would be there. Obviously she wasn't; she'd graduated. It was taking Jess a while to adjust to that fact, it seemed. 

"What's the point of this?" she asked, sinking into a chair with her limbs drawn in tight to her body. 

"The point is that it's a get out of hell free card," replied Loki, making a grand entrance as usual. "And since I have gym seventh period, I hope he keeps it at this time every week. Changing the day, of course, so that it stays on a gym day."

Clint couldn't help smiling. Although he was pretty sure he hated it less than Loki did, he wasn't particularly fond of enforced physical activity either. He did okay, but team sports just really weren't his thing, and no one ever wanted him on their team anyway. Most people thought he was stupid, when usually it was just that he couldn't hear what was being said.

"Is this everyone?" Jess asked as Mr. Coulson came in.

"We may have a few stragglers," he said. "We'll give them another couple of minutes."

Clint wasn't sure if he was being deliberately evasive or what, because this was everyone that was left from last year, everyone that hadn't graduated, so who else could there be? Maybe Mr. Coulson had invited some new people to join them? He wasn't sure how he felt about the idea. They'd added Carol, Jessica, and Bobbi last year, after losing Steve and Thor, and it had turned out all right. But what if things didn't go so well this year? What if whoever it was ruined the group dynamic?

Mr. Coulson's presence put a damper on any conversation they might have had, and he looked to be about to close the door and start the group when someone else stepped in. "I'm late," she said. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Don't worry about it," the social worker told her. "We haven't started yet."

"I tried to—"

"It's all right," he said. "I mean it." There was a weight to the words that would probably have been unnecessary if the person who had just arrived was anyone other than Pepper Potts. But Pepper was high-strung at best, and slightly (or more than slightly) neurotic at worse, and probably if he didn't say it she would keep apologizing, or keep beating herself up in her head, for something that was really not a big deal.

She had a way of making mountains out of molehills, as the cliché went. Someone had always said that, but Clint couldn't remember who. Not his mom, and certainly not his dad. Someone in the circus, it must have been.

Mr. Coulson looked toward the door, and at the clock, and reached to shut it. "I guess that's—"

"Wait!" 

It was a good thing that the social worker stepped back from the door, because it would have hit him as it came crashing open. "Sorry I'm late. Let's get this party started."

Loki groaned. Audibly, even to Clint. "This is just perfect."

"Is there a problem?" Mr. Coulson asked. 

"No," Loki said. "Of course not." But it was pretty obvious that there was. Apparently having Sam Wilson steal his thunder in theater class was bad enough; his presence here was more than the melodramatic senior could handle. He didn't get up to leave, though, and that seemed like progress, maybe.

Or maybe he was just waiting for the moment when his exit could be as dramatic as Sam's entrance. 

"Hi everybody," Sam said. "For those of you who—"

"We'll get to introductions in a minute," Mr. Coulson interrupted. "Go ahead and have a seat."

Sam sat down, looking around curiously at the others in the room. "So these are the troubled yout's of Shield County?" he asked. 

"Troubled?" Bobbi asked. "No, we're not troubled."

"Why would you think we're troubled?" Jessica added.

"Uh, because you've got some group therapy going on here?" Sam replied, more a question than an answer, but Clint was pretty sure it was rhetorical.

"It's not group therapy," Loki said. 

"Kinda looks like it to me."

"Can we get started?" Pepper asked. Her shoulders were already creeping up towards her ears, and Clint wondered what she was thinking. Maybe about all of the things that she was missing by being here, all of the better, more important, places she could be. 

"Yes," Mr. Coulson said. "We can." He looked around at the assembled group, smiling at each of them. "Many of you have been here before," he said. "You know that I invited you here originally because I felt that you might need a little extra help with integrating into the rest of the school, and because I felt that you each possessed something that allowed you to make a difference in the school, if you put your minds to it."

"What's with the past tense?" Bobbi asked. "You changed your mind?"

"I didn't change my mind," Mr. Coulson said. "I still think that, and I'm hoping that this year we'll really get a chance to do something great. But I also know that this has become something else for some of you, something I hoped it would be but wasn't sure if it would become. I feel as if, for some of you, this has become a sort of sanctuary, a safe place where you can be yourself without having to put on whatever mask you wear in the outside world to get through the day. I want this to be a safe space for everyone, and—"

"If you want it to be a safe space, why are you inviting in strangers?" Loki asked.

"You were all strangers when this started," Mr. Coulson pointed out. 

"I wasn't," Loki said. "I had my br— Thor was here."

"All right," Mr. Coulson conceded. "But for the most part you weren't acquainted with the rest of the group. In any case, when inviting people to join this group, I do try to consider how each new addition will fit into the group. There are people I have considered that haven't been invited because I realized that it would completely derail the group dynamic. So just know that I believe that each of you has something to contribute here, and that you belong here. If you feel otherwise, there's the door. You're here of your own volition, and you are welcome to leave at any time, and also to come back."

Clint looked at Loki – they all did – but he watched Jessica and Pepper out of the corner of his eye as well. But no one moved. 

"Good," Mr. Coulson said. "Now, like I said, most of you have been here before, so you know each other. But since not all of you do, why don't we go around and do introductions. Tell us your name, what grade you're in, and something interesting about you. Something you did over the summer, something you're looking forward to in the upcoming year, something you're dreading about the upcoming year... anything you want. Does anyone want to start?"

"I will," Bobbi said. "I'm Bobbi Morse. I'm a senior. I have someone else's heart, which still kind of squicks me when I think too much about it, so I try not to. I'm a second-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and fall is my favorite season. I'm looking forward to pumpkin spice everything."

Leave it to Bobbi to actually get things off on a positive note. It seemed she had decided to step up into the void left by Carol's departure, after Carol had filled the gap left by Steve. It was probably a good thing, because without someone to take the lead, they would end up going nowhere fast. 

Mr. Coulson looked at the people on other side of Bobbi and apparently decided that putting Pepper on the spot wasn't the greatest idea, because he fixed his gaze on Natasha. 

She sighed. "I am Natasha Romanova. I am sen—I am _a_ senior. I come from Russia originally, but I have been here since—" She stopped, scowling. "I have been here for two years. Obviously, my English still is not perfect. I am dreading college applications."

She looked over at Clint. "Hey," he said, with an awkward wave that was completely unnecessary. "I'm Clint Barton. I'm a senior, but I'm a year older than everyone... and actually two years older than some of the young seniors. I'm about to turn nineteen. I was homeschooled, which pretty much means I wasn't schooled at all, because I grew up in the circus. I live with a foster family and this past summer one of my foster brothers decided to pretty much lose his mind and now he's living in a group home. In case anyone was wondering how that all played out."

Mr. Coulson looked like he was going to say something, but then he stopped himself. "Next?"

Jessica looked up from whatever she'd been staring at on the floor and realized that Mr. Coulson was talking to her. "Oh. I'm Jessica Drew. I'm a senior. I was homeschooled, too, but we actually did go to school, which was not always entirely reality-based. I spent the summer working at a camp, in the kitchens because I really kind of don't like kids much, and although I always used to say that I hated it, I actually really like cooking, although I prefer if it's not for a hundred people at a time."

"Me next?" Sam asked, pointing to his chest.

"That's generally how circles work," Loki muttered. 

Sam just rolled his eyes. "I'm Sam Wilson. I am not a senior. Poor me. I'm a junior, and I've always gone to normal schools. I was pretty pissed that I was forced to move this close to the end of high school, but I guess God made my dad an offer he couldn't refuse, so we moved here."

They all looked at him, and it was Pepper who finally spoke up. "Is he... did he... I'm sorry for your loss?" 

Sam laughed. "Oh no, he didn't die! Although that would be a great euphemism, wouldn't it?" He shook his head. "No, he's a minister, and even though he had a really good job back in New York City, he says he has to go where he's called, and apparently he was called here."

"You're religious?" Jessica asked, visibly shifting away from him.

"I don't know what I believe," Sam said. "But my dad believes that he's the mouthpiece of God on earth. Or one of them. He doesn't actually think that he's the only one or anything. He's just a minister, not a cult leader."

Clint felt Natasha cringe, and he touched her arm lightly as they waited to see if they were going to need to restrain Jess or something. 

"Right," Jessica said, and seemed to be willing to let it go at that... for now, anyway.

"I'm Loki," Loki said. "I'm a senior. I spent the summer – again – at theater camp, and I got some really great roles this time around. I'm now trying to decide on whether I want to actually go to college, or whether I should just try my luck in the theater world. My parents want me to go to college, obviously, but then they don't want me to go for theater. It's not _practical_."

"Your parents don't have to live your life," Pepper said. "You should do what you love." 

"That's what I keep telling them," Loki said. "But what to do I know? It's only my life, after all."

Pepper flashed him a sympathetic smile. "I guess I'm last," she said. "I'm Pepper Potts. I'm also a senior – sorry, Sam – and I spent this summer working at an internship that convinced me that being an intern, in a word, sucks." She smiled brightly – a little _too_ brightly, Clint thought – and added, "I'm looking forward to senior year, and making the most of it. I want to leave my mark on the school, like Mr. Coulson said, which is why I'm actually part of the group this year, instead of just a sort of... associate member."

It all felt like a lie, but no one called her on it. Clint got the feeling that there was _a lot_ that Pepper didn't say. Like that whole tip of the iceberg theory, that you only see the top ten percent of an iceberg or whatever the statistic was. Bobbi might know, but now probably wasn't the time to ask.

"Great," Mr. Coulson said. "As you all know, I'm Mr. Coulson, and I'm the social worker here. I actually spent my summer – part of it, anyway – helping build houses for Habitat for Humanity. I think they may actually be doing something in this area in the spring, so if that happens, I would love to get you all out there participating."

"Can former members come?" Jessica asked. "Carol actually knows what she's doing with power tools."

"As long as it doesn't conflict with whatever else she's got going on at the time, I don't see why not," Mr. Coulson said. 

"We should have some kind of Wall of Fame or something," Bobbi said. "A cheat sheet of past members so newbies know who you're talking about." She'd met Steve and Thor after the fact, of course, but Sam hadn't met any of them, and it wasn't like they weren't going to come up.

"That's actually not a bad idea," Mr. Coulson said. "Does anyone want to give Sam a little history so he knows who we're talking about when they inevitably come up in conversation?"

"Thor was my... is my br— _adoptive_ brother," Loki said. "I'm adopted. He's not." 

_Well at least that's out of the way,_ Clint signed, small and with his body turned so that hopefully no one but Natasha noticed. _It took a whole ten minutes this year._

Natasha put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing, then said, "Steve was first leader of group," she said. "He is in college for art now... or for teaching. Teaching art." 

"I think right now he's mostly just getting his gen eds out of the way," Pepper said. "Next year he'll transfer out of the community college and really figure out what he's doing." 

"Tony was some kind of super genius super spaz," Clint said. "He meant well, though. He's at MIT now, with Bruce, who was a pretty quiet guy who had some issues."

"We all have issues," Jessica said. "Carol was sort of our leader last year, once she joined. She's going to community college this year, I guess to save money to go a real school, she says. She's good at building things, and she wants to be able to fly."

"Speaking of," Mr. Coulson said, "not flying, but of our former members, has anyone heard from them recently?"

"I saw Carol yesterday," Jessica said. "She's still around."

"Steve moved in with his girlfriend," Clint said. "And some other people. I think there's a plan for some kind of group thing coming up, but I've only talked to him once since camp ended, and the plan was still sketchy."

"I talked to Bruce the other day," Bobbi said. "He's adjusting pretty well. He says not rooming with Tony was the best decision he ever made. He actually likes his roommate quite a bit. Tony's roommate hates him – Tony, not Bruce – and Bruce is a little worried that Tony might actually be driving him insane. The roommate, not Bruce. He said that the classes are challenging, but mostly in a good way, although he has one professor that he's a little worried about." She shrugged. 

"Has anyone talked to Tony?" Mr. Coulson asked. "Or I guess had Tony talk at them would be more likely."

That got a laugh from everyone who'd known him, and Pepper raised her hand. "I've been emailing with him," she said. "He says that for a bunch of allegedly brilliant people, there are a lot of idiots there, but he'll make the best of it. He didn't say it, but I think he's glad that Bruce is there with him. He's always kind of steadied him, hasn't he? Since they met. And I'm pretty sure Tony would spin out of control without someone to ground him."

Clint was pretty sure she was right.

"That's good to hear," Mr. Coulson said. "Let them know that they know where to find me if they need someone to talk to." 

"I will," Pepper and Bobbi said at the same time.

And then they moved on to other things, but Clint didn't pay a lot of attention. He was too busy wondering what anyone would say about him next year... except with only one junior in the group, there probably wouldn't be a next year. The thought was somehow depressing.


	3. Chapter 3

"As some of you may have heard," Mr. Lawton said as the period was nearing its end, "there is a community service requirement for this class." There was a collective groan, but their teacher continued, undaunted. "I know that a lot of you are busy – after school sports, clubs, jobs – but this is not option, and not negotiable. By the end of the semester, you must complete twelve hours of community service. That's just one hour a week for twelve weeks, or two hours for six weeks, three hours for four weeks, four hours for three weeks, or six hours for two weeks. Hell—"

This time the response was a hissing intake of breath, followed by some people saying, "Oooh!" and others laughing. 

Mr. Lawton rolled his eyes. "If you can find something that is a full day, you can get it all done at once. It doesn't matter how you hours, just that you do, and that you get them signed off on. Now, it _is_ subject to approval, so I encourage you to find something sooner rather than later, and make sure that it's approved. If you wait until the end of the semester, and your activity doesn't qualify as community service, you could find yourself in trouble."

The bell rang, and Mr. Lawton positioned himself at the door, handing them all sheets that gave further details of the community service requirement, along with the sheet that they needed to have signed, documenting their hours.

"Is too bad the house for humanity is not until spring," Natasha said. "That would be easy to get hours."

"Yeah," Clint agreed. "Jess has it next semester, doesn't she?"

"I think yes," Natasha said. 

"I guess she's set, then. If it happens, anyway."

"Right." 

But that didn't help them now. Clint figured maybe he could ask the Sullivans; they might know of somewhere that needed volunteers. The problem was, anything they knew of was likely to involve kids, and after a summer spent working with them, he wasn't sure that he was interested in doing it all over again without the benefit of a paycheck. Or maybe Pepper knew about something. Almost certainly she did.

As it turned out, Clint didn't need to worry about finding a place to do community service – an opportunity fell right into his lap. It was kind of exactly the opportunity that he'd wanted to avoid, but it Steve had called him to ask – almost _beg_ for his help, and the help of anyone else he could recruit – and how could he say no?

"It'll be fun," Steve had said. "You might be surprised."

Natasha had agreed to come along, although she looked even more dubious about it than he did as they stood in the doorway of an elementary school cafeteria and watched kids tearing around the room. Their noise reverberated off the ceiling and walls, and it was enough to make Clint's head ache. 

_We could just sneak out,_ she suggested, seeing the pained look on his face. _Tell Steve that something else came up._

_There has to be something better than—_

Before Clint could finish the sentence, though, he was nearly knocked over by a small blonde missile colliding with his midsection. He looked down and was surprised to see Lewis attempting to climb him like a monkey up a tree. He was grateful, then, that Lewis was tall for his age, because if he'd been the height of some of these kids, that low blow would have been much, much worse.

"I told you you might be surprised," Steve said cheerfully. "Thank you guys for coming, seriously. As you can see, we've got a lot of kids and not nearly enough volunteer tutors. Most people are working with two or three kids at a time, which isn't _bad_ , per se, but it's not great."

Lewis tugged on Clint's shirt, then yanked, babbling at him so fast that Clint didn't stand any chance of understanding. When he didn't respond, Lewis stomped his foot – right on Clint's toes.

"FU—" Clint started, then swallowed the rest of the word as Steve's eyes sprang so wide there was white showing almost all the way around. _What?_ , he signed, crouching down to the boy's level. _What is it?_

But Lewis had crossed his arms, and after a barely dodged kick to Clint's shin, he stomped off across the room.

"Duty calls, I guess?" Clint didn't know if Lewis was actually supposed to be his particular project again, but he assumed that was why Steve had called him in particular, rather than reaching out to Natasha or one of the other girls. 

"No one else can understand him," Steve said apologetically.

"Right. Got it." 

He went after Lewis, and spent the first fifteen minutes of the hour they were supposed to spend tutoring just convincing him to come up from under the table where he'd hidden. When coaxing didn't work, and physical force ended up making him look like an asshole (and boy did that kid have a good grip – the whole table moved when Clint tried to drag him by the ankles) he just sat down a few feet away and pulled his phone out of his pocket, playing a game on it while watching Lewis out of the corner of his eye.

Finally curiosity overcame temper tantrum, and Lewis came crawling out to sit beside him... and then practically in his lap. He poked at the screen, and Clint let him play for a couple of minutes before turning it off. "Do you have homework?"

Lewis shook his head and reached for the phone.

"Are you sure?" Clint asked. "I bet you do."

Lewis shook his head again.

"What do you have?" Clint asked. "Reading? Math?" He didn't actually knew what other classes little kids took. He didn't figure Connor's stuff was a good indication, since he went to a special program at a special school. He signed the words as he said them.

Lewis shook his head a third time, and just kept shaking it until Clint took it between his hands to stop the bobblehead effect. It made his neck hurt, watching him. "Why don't you show me?" he asked. "Bring your backpack and we'll check."

For a minute he thought that Lewis wouldn't do it, but finally the boy got up and came back with a bag that seemed far too big for him. It also looked ratty and worn out, like it was a hand-me-down from someone who hadn't taken particularly good care of it. 

"Can you unzip it for me?" Clint asked.

Lewis did, and Clint reached inside to pull out a folder. He opened it up and found a packet inside that was apparently that week's homework. On the first page it said that the child should spend at least ten minutes a night reading. 

"Worksheets or reading?" Clint asked.

The little boy shook his head, grinning. 

"No?" Clint asked, still signing the word. "No?" He reached out to tickle Lewis, and the boy laughed and squirmed, still shaking his head. When Clint stopped, he reached out to try and tickle Clint in return, to prolong the game and, presumably, to avoid having to do homework.

Clint caught his hand, holding it for a minute before letting it go. "Work first," he said. "Play after. So you have to pick. Worksheets or reading?"

Lewis made a sound that could have been either one, or something else entirely. Clint cocked his head. "Did you forget all of your signs?" he asked. 

The boy looked at him and shook his head. 

"Then help me understand," Clint said. "Remember, I don't hear very well." It was easier to place the blame on his ears than the boy's inability to articulate clearly, even though the issue was definitely more the latter than the former. Was he not getting any help? Or was he just not getting better? 

Instead of signing, though, Lewis just grabbed the book that was in his backpack and spread it over his lap, flipping through the pages quickly and then handing it back. 

"Finished already?" Clint asked. 

Lewis nodded. 

"Wow," Clint said. "You're a fast reader! Faster than me. How about we read it one more time, slowly, so that I can keep up. How about you read it to me?"

It was a bad plan. He hadn't really thought about it, but it was a really, really bad plan, because he had no idea if the sounds coming out of Lewis's mouth had anything at all to do with the words that were actually on the page. But he was saying _something_ , and who was he to say that Lewis wasn't doing exactly that he was told?

So when they reached the end of the book, Clint said, "Okay, now worksheets."

Lewis shook his head and pointed to where the games were kept.

"Sorry, buddy," Clint said. "We're here for homework."

The boy squawked indignantly and at some length, and Clint didn't understand a single word of it, even if his meaning was fairly clear. Clint had promised that after they did their work they could play. But there was still twenty minutes left of the hour, and that was probably longer than they were supposed to devote to games. 

"I'll make you a deal," Clint said. "We will do _one_ worksheet, and you can do the rest at home, okay? One worksheet, and then we'll play a game. Any worksheet that you want."

For a minute it looked like Lewis was going to object, but finally he grudgingly took the packet that Clint offered, flipping through it. He settled on a math worksheet, racing through the problems quickly, but when Clint checked it, he'd gotten all but one right, and the one he'd gotten wrong he'd written as a nine instead of a six, and maybe that was just a handwriting issue. After all, some kids his age still wrote some of their letters backward, right?

"Good job!" Clint said. "Okay, go pick a game."

It turned out even the games were meant to be educational, but Lewis didn't seem to mind. He seemed to get a lot of pleasure out of explaining the rules to Clint... while Clint surreptitiously read them on the inside of the game's lid. 

"Okay," Clint said, when he'd finally convinced Lewis to put the game away because their time was almost up. "I'll see you next week?"

Lewis shrugged, then nodded. 

"Have a good week," Clint said. "Don't forget to do the rest of your worksheets. Even the ones you don't like."

The boy laughed and slipped his arms through the straps of his backpack. He said something that Clint didn't understand, except for the one sign that he added in – play. But before he could respond, Lewis smacked his left hand with his right, and dropped to the floor, sitting on his hands and rocking.

He didn't even get a chance to ask him what was wrong, because at that moment the kids were all ushered out to meet their parents or get on the buses that would take them home. 

Natasha came up beside him. _How was it?_ , she asked. 

_Weird,_ Clint said. _He was signing all summer – really starting to get the hang of it – and now not a word. When he finally did, he kind of flipped out, like he'd done something wrong._

_That's weird,_ Natasha agreed. 

_How was your kid?_ , Clint asked. 

_Not bad. English isn't her first language, but neither is Russian, so that was a little bit tricky, but we did all right._

Clint smiled. _Steve playing matchmaker again?_

_I guess so,_ Natasha replied. _Ready to go home?_

_No,_ Clint said, _but what choice do we have?_

_You could come over, maybe,_ Natasha said. _At least for a little while._

_I wish,_ Clint said. _Unfortunately, Mrs. Sullivan is even touchier about last minute changes in plans these days than she was before. If I don't get home for dinner, she might start to unravel._ He thought about it for a second, then said, _You could come over to my place for once._

_Wouldn't that count as a last minute change in plans?_

_Yeah, but she's still in the habit of cooking for six, so I don't think it will be too big a deal. I'll ask._

He texted Mrs. Sullivan, hoping she would actually check her phone. He would call if she didn't answer in a minute or two. But she got back to him right away, saying that that was fine, but could they please get home soon because dinner was almost ready and he knew that the younger boys didn't like to wait.

_It's fine,_ Clint said. _So do you want to?_

_All right._

It had been a while since she'd actually been in the house when his foster parents were there, at least when she wasn't there helping him watch the boys and there wasn't a crisis going on. He was worried that it would be awkward, and he guessed it probably was, but not any more awkward than it would be for any other teenager, at least based on what he saw on TV. 

At least it wasn't until they started asking about school, which inevitably led to asking Natasha what she was planning to do after she graduated. 

"College," she said, as if there was no other option. Maybe for her there wasn't. Maybe for most people. 

"Do you know what you're planning on majoring in?" Mr. Sullivan asked. 

Natasha shrugged. "I am still considering," she said. "I have some ideas, but it depends what programs I can find."

"Are you thinking about going back to Russia to go to school there?" Mrs. Sullivan asked.

Clint's stomach sank. He hadn't even considered the possibility of that. Why would he? There was nothing for her there... except what if there was? What if they had better colleges there, or what if it was cheaper, or...

"No," Natasha said firmly. "No, I am not going back. Maybe someday I will visit, but to live? I don't want to live in Russia." Her eyes flicked to Clint and then away again, quick enough that he almost didn't catch it. "My life is here now. My family and friends. Why I would go back?"

"So do you have any idea where you want to go?" Mr. Sullivan asked. 

She shrugged again. "I think I will probably stay near here," she said. "Maybe not at any of the local schools, but somewhere near. Maybe Boston."

"There are lots of great schools in Boston," Mr. Sullivan said. "Pretty much anything you wanted to study, you could probably find a school in Boston that has a good program for it."

"This is what I am hoping," Natasha said. "Already some of our friends are there, and maybe more will go. Is definitely where I am focusing." She looked over at him again, and he tried to smile but he was pretty sure that it came out a grimace. 

But there were jobs in Boston, too, right? There had to be. So she could go to school and he could find a job, and it would be all right. Except she would meet people. Better people, more interesting people, _smarter_ people, and eventually she would realize that there was more to life than this town, and that he was just a part of the past that she could shed once she got away from it all.

He felt her fingers close around his under the table, and when he looked over at her, she was frowning with concern. He squeezed her fingers to reassure her, and it smoothed out the lines forming between her brows, but he got the feeling that she wasn't really reassured. 

It was a discussion for another time, though, not one to be had at the dinner table with his foster parents and foster brothers, who were already starting to clamor for Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan's attention, much to his relief. 

Once dinner was over, and they'd been dismissed from helping with cleanup, with the suggestion that it might be time for Clint to take Natasha home, since it _was_ a school night and they almost certainly had homework, they went out to his car. 

_Are you okay?_ , Natasha asked. _You were very quiet._

_They were talking to you,_ Clint said. _I didn't want to interrupt._

_That doesn't answer my question,_ Natasha pointed out.

_I'm fine,_ Clint said. _It's just been a weird day._

_Thinking about Lewis?_

He hadn't been; he'd forgotten all about the little boy when his focus had been pulled to his complete lack of future plans, albeit indirectly. But it was easier to worry about someone else's problems, so he nodded. _Yeah. I want to figure out what's going on there. Why he won't sign._

_I guess there's always next week,_ Natasha said.

_I guess there is,_ Clint agreed. _And ten more after that._

She smiled. _Don't remind me._


	4. Chapter 4

"Thanks for this," Bobbi said, getting into the back seat. "My mom decided that even though I am a perfectly good drive who has never been in an accident, and I have my license, I am not allowed to drive by myself out of state. Which I'm pretty sure there's not actually any law against, but you know how she is." 

"Not a problem," Clint said. "It makes more sense anyway. It costs money to park there, so why not make it as few cars as possible. Cut down on the cost."

"How much is it?" Bobbi asked. 

"I don't know," Clint said. "I don't remember from last year."

"Ten dollars," Natasha supplied. "I look it up."

"How much is it to get in again?" Bobbi asked.

"Is fifteen, but Steve went to a store that had tickets early and were only twelve, so he got them and you can pay him back."

"Oh, nice. How did he know how many to get?" 

Natasha shrugged. "I think he just guessed."

"Where is everyone else, anyway?"

"We will meet them," Natasha told her. "They met at Steve's, I think, but Clint said he would pick me up because I live farther away."

"I thought I'd be picking up Jess, too, and probably Carol, but I guess they decided they would rather spend the money to be able to ride, just the two of them." Clint held up one hand like, 'What can you do?' and then began to back out of Bobbi's driveway. "Are you sure your brother doesn't want to come?" he asked, stopping as he saw a face at the window.

"Yeah," Bobbi said. "He said he doesn't know any of you guys, and it would just be awkward. I think his plan is to go over to a friend's house and play video games all day."

"All right," Clint said, and backed out onto the road. "Which way?" he asked Natasha.

"Get on highway toward Springfield," she said. "Then just drive. Once we get to Massachusetts, we will worry about more directions."

"At least it's not all weird and foggy this year," he said as they hit their first traffic jam. "Last year we spent half the drive barely being able to see the car in front of us," he explained to Bobbi. "Luckily, it had mostly cleared up by the time we got there."

"The weather is supposed to be really nice," Bobbi said. "Kind of cold now, but it's supposed to warm up." She watched out the window for a few minutes, then asked, "So is this something you guys do every year?"

"We went last year," Clint said. "A bunch of us. It was probably Steve's idea, although I don't remember exactly. The year before, no."

"The year before, I was not even in country in September," Natasha explained. "I did not come until October. We did not meet until November."

"So you guys have known each other less than two years?" Bobbi asked.

"Yeah," Clint said. "Crazy, huh?"

"Definitely. You act like you've known each other your entire lives."

"Sometimes it feels like we have," Clint said, with a glance over to the passenger's seat.

"I have known him all of my life that matters," Natasha said. "My life in Russia..." She considered for a moment, likely looking for the right words. "Is not a dream," she said finally, "but it feels like... like _prologue_. Like all the things you need to know before the story starts."

"Huh," Bobbi said. "That's..." She grinned. "Well, that's poetic, for one thing, but that's interesting. I think I can see it, though. It's not the same for me, but... it kind of is, in a way? Like everything leading up to my heart attack, everything leading up to, well, _dying_ was just the prologue of my life after. My second chance. Only not really?"

Natasha nodded, turning to look at her. "It matters, but maybe less than it would have if things had happened differently."

"Something like that," Bobbi said. "Do you think it's like that for everyone? Like you have your life up to a certain point, and then there's an event, like one singular thing, maybe even one moment, where everything changes?"

The car was quiet for a minute as they turned that over in their heads. "I don't know if it's like that for _everyone_ ," Clint said finally, "but I feel like it's maybe true for everyone in our group. Or most of us. For you it was dying. For Natasha it was coming to America. For me it was the explosion, and being left behind, and losing my hearing, which was all basically simultaneous."

"What about everyone else?" Bobbi asked. "Like... Bruce? Because I don't think it was when he tried to kill himself. I think it was before that."

"I think Bruce maybe has more than one," Clint said. "Like... how much do you know about him?" Because it wasn't his place to tell Bruce's story. If he wanted Bobbi to know it, he would tell her. But he didn't know what conversations they might have had when they were in the hospital together.

"I know that his life has pretty much been a mess since he was young. That his father was an abusive asshole who was in jail for killing his wife – Bruce's mom."

"Right," Clint said. "So there was that. But then there was also when he ended up in juvie after beating up that kid in his old school. And then there was trying to kill himself. So is it one of those three? Or all of them? Or something else completely?"

"I guess it's impossible to know unless you actually live in that person's head, like live their life," Bobbi said. "Although with some people it's more obvious than others."

"Steve and his mom," Clint said.

"Tony and his mom, probably," Natasha added. "Jessica leaving her family."

"Carol..." Clint stopped. "I'm not sure Carol has one. Not yet."

Natasha frowned. "It feels like something is not right with her," she said. "When she is over, she seems happy but then... not happy. Like happy is mask she wears, role she plays."

"I know she wasn't happy about having to go to community college," Clint said. "I know she wanted more than that. Even though it's what Steve is doing, it's different for her."

"Steve chose it," Natasha said. "He had to deal with his house and he wanted to save money, and when he was planning future he didn't know if his mother would still be alive and need him. Carol did not choose it."

"Did she not get into any other colleges?" Bobbi asked. "That seems... unlikely, given how smart she is."

"She has no money for it," Natasha said. "Her parents tell her, we have money only to send one of you to college, so we send your brother."

"Who told you that?" Clint asked.

"Jessica," Natasha said. "Carol told her once. She just started talking and didn't stop, and that is what comes out."

"Let me guess," Clint said, "there was alcohol involved?"

"I didn't ask," Natasha said. "Probably yes."

"Does she drink a lot?" Bobbi asked.

"Define 'a lot'," Clint replied wryly.

Bobbi didn't.

After that they were quiet, and then Bobbi started asking about the fair, which she'd never been to despite having lived in New England her entire life. "My mom said it was a waste of money," she said. "I think she's just allergic to _fun_."

"Mostly it's about the food," Clint said. "At least _I_ think it is. There's rides and midway games and all of that, but I wouldn't waste my money on that. At least not the games. They're rigged, and if you _really_ want one of those toys you can buy them a lot cheaper through a catalog than the money you would put into it to win them. Even the big ones are maybe worth ten bucks."

"There are lots of booths selling things," Natasha said. "And there are animals – did you know people show cows like they show dogs? And crafts and things. Is interesting. Something for everyone, I think."

"Cool," Bobbi said. "And you two don't mind me hanging around with you?" She actually sounded a little unsure when she asked it, which was so out of character for her Clint actually glanced back to make sure she wasn't joking around.

"We don't mind," Natasha answered for them. "Why we would mind?"

"Because sometimes couples want time alone?" Bobbi ventured.

"There is no alone in crowd of hundreds of people," Natasha said. "Don't worry."

"I just don't know the others as well," Bobbi said. "And Bruce isn't here."

"Is fine," Natasha told her again. "Just tell us if we are walking past something you want to see."

"Or eat," Clint added. "Tell us if we're walking past anything you want to eat."

Bobbi laughed. "I will. Promise."

They arrived only a few minutes after the van that held Steve, Peggy, Sharon (how often did she watch her niece?) and Pepper, along with – somewhat to Clint's surprise, Loki and Sam Wilson. He hadn't known they were coming, or even that Steve would have known to invite them. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe Pepper had.

Carol and Jess pulled into a couple of minutes later. They looked like they'd had a rough drive. "Everything okay?" Steve asked, pulling Carol against his side in a hug. 

"Fine," she said, but Clint saw that Natasha was right. At least in that moment, happy was a mask she was wearing. Maybe she'd had a rough night, or they'd had more problems with traffic, or who knew what? Hopefully some fried food and maybe some coffee would restore her.

"So what's the plan?" Bobbi asked. "Are we sticking together or splitting up or what?"

"Whatever people feel like, really," Steve said. "Obviously we're going to spend some time on the midway," he nodded toward Peggy, who was holding Sharon on her hip as the little girl decided to play at being shy even though she'd met most, if not all, of them before... or maybe she was just tired, "but we don't all have to stay together all day. I figured we would just agree on a few times to meet up throughout the day, check in, that kind of thing."

"I vote we have our first meetup at the Maine potato stand at 11:00," Jessica suggested. "Because I seriously do not believe you that a baked potato is anything other than a baked potato." 

Clint remembered that she hadn't come along last year – she'd only been at Mr. Fury's for a couple of weeks at that point, and still very wary of them – but they'd told her about it, and she'd been scoffing ever since about the raptures they'd had over the baked potatoes from Maine. 

"Sounds like a good plan," Steve said. He started to hand out tickets, coming up with just enough to get them all in. Most of them handed over cash on the spot to pay him back, and he fanned it out in front of himself. "Look at that," he said. "I'm rich." He grinned. "Thanks guys."

They headed through the gate as a group, but they slowly drifted apart as some of them (Clint, Natasha) went in search of coffee and others (Steve, Peggy, Sharon, with Sam trailing behind looking a bit like a lost but enthusiastic puppy) went to see about breakfast, and still others (Jessica, with Carol in tow) just got distracted by all of the various food stalls (most of which weren't open yet) and started rambling about how she had to try this or how could anyone ever eat that?

Loki and Pepper followed them to a coffee stand, and Loki held the paper cup between his palms, breathing in the scent of it before taking a sip. 

"I'm surprised to see you here," Clint said after a minute, as the silence stretched. "I wouldn't have thought this was your scene."

"I don't have a scene," Loki said.

"You _always_ have a scene," Pepper said, with such a straight face that it took them all a minute to figure out that it was, or was at least meant to be, a theater joke. 

"Fair enough," he said, with the barest hint of a smile. "It's all about gathering life experiences," he added. "What if I need to play the role of a carnie someday? I should at least experience something of their world."

"This isn't the same thing," Clint said automatically. "This is..." He stopped himself. "Well, I guess carnies are carnies, whether they're part of something like this or part of a circus. If you're talking about the people in the midway and that kind of thing, anyway. But an agricultural fair is a lot different than a circus, and being in the same place for more than two weeks is a major luxury, and..." His voice trailed off. "And nobody cares," he mumbled.

"I care," Bobbi said, but she looked like she was trying not to laugh. 

"It's good information," Loki said. "It's all about the details when creating a character."

"I'm not a character," Clint said, defensive even though he was pretty sure there wasn't really any reason to be. "It's my life."

"We're all characters," Loki replied. "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.  
They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.' Shakespeare. _As You Like It._ "

"Is that what you really think?" Bobbi asked him, sounding genuinely curious.

"Obviously," Loki said. "Think about it. You're not the same person at school as you are at home, and you're not the same person when you're with other people as you are alone. The differences may be small, but they exist. You suit yourself to your environment. Perhaps you would call that adaptation, along the lines of survival of the fittest, but I would call it shifting one's role, the part one plays, to suit the scene that one is presented with."

"Huh," Bobbi said. "I guess that's true. But do you think it's really a conscious thing?"

"I think it can be," Loki said, "but I think a lot of it is unconscious. Some of it is just how we're socialized, and some of it I think is conditioning. We're trained to act a certain way in certain situations, so we do, and we know that if we break out of that expected role, there will be consequences. Like arguing with a teacher. We are trained to be very uncomfortable with that idea. But what if the teacher is wrong? What if the teacher is providing misinformation? Do we let it go, or do we break that conditioning, break character, to correct them? And is that really breaking character, or is that letting more of your true self show?"

"Who is true self?" Natasha asked. "Are all parts true? All are coming from you, so all _are_ you, in a way."

"I don't think so," Loki said.

"Neither do I," Pepper said. "I think you can play a role that is pretty much antithetical to who you really are, and you can play it well... so well that it starts to become who you are, whether you want it to be or not."

"I think we've probably all played parts that aren't really us," Bobbi said. "I played a soccer player for a long, long time. I wasn't good at it, and I didn't enjoy it, but it was what my mother wanted so I did it. I only finally got out of it because it nearly killed me. Which I guess isn't entirely true; the same thing could have happened in the dojang, but at least then if I died – or if I stayed dead – at least I would have died as a version of myself that I was happy in."

"I think you can play roles that aren't you at all," Clint said. "I think you can be forced into them, and because they're so not you, they start to destroy who you really are."

"I thought we were supposed to be off school today," Bobbi said in the silence that followed. "We're all thinking a little too deeply here. Who wants beignets?"

Clint waited for the others to move toward the stand, then put his hand gently on Natasha's arm. _Are you okay? I didn't mean to—_

_I know,_ she said, squeezing his arm in return because she could form the signs one-handed. _I'm fine._

_Okay,_ , he said, taking her at her word. 

Once the coffee and sugar hit their bloodstreams, and the sun climbed a bit higher in the sky so that it actually began to provide some warmth, the somewhat grim turn that the conversation had taken seemed to evaporate.

"Where to?" Bobbi asked as Loki got distracted and Pepper followed him off into one of the vendor booths. 

"What to see sheep in nightgowns?" Clint asked.

" _What?_ "

Natasha grinned. "Exactly as he says. Come on." They headed for the barn, where there were, in fact, sheep wearing coats and hoods that were presumably to keep their wool clean for showing, and maybe a little bit to keep them warm, but which made it look like they'd caught the sheep before they'd changed out of their pajamas.

"You see something new every day," Bobbi said. "Oh look, yarn!"

"What do you need yarn for?" Clint asked her. 

"To knit," Bobbi replied.

"You _knit_?" His eyebrows shot up.

She looked at him, her expression imitating his. "Is that really so shocking? I spent months barely able to get out of bed for fear that my heart would explode. I needed _something_ to do with my hands."

"Will you—" he started, but stopped at a look that was Natasha-levels of deadly. 

"Don't say it," she said. "Don't you even say it."

"Say what?" Clint asked, bewildered.

"Say, 'Will you knit me something?' Because that's what people _always_ say, and then they expect you to just magically produce something, like it's easy... and cheap." She grimaced as she looked at the price tag on one of the skeins of yarn. "It's not."

"Sorry," Clint said, hands up in surrender. "But if I paid for the yarn, would you knit me something?"

"I'm not very good," Bobbi admitted. "I can make hats and scarves... that's about it."

"Hats are good," Clint said. "I like hats."

"If you pay for it," Bobbi said, "I'll knit you a hat." She looked at Natasha. "And I'll knit you one for free." She grinned.

"Why?" Natasha asked.

"Duh," Bobbi said. "Because you didn't ask."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting so late! I honestly forgot about it until I was already at work, and then I got home and had to make dinner. Hopefully it was worth the wait!


	5. Chapter 5

"Hey, sorry to interrupt, but can we just talk about something real for a minute here?" 

Everyone looked back from wherever their gazes had drifted as Pepper had gone on (and on, and on...) about the Student Council drama that was apparently ensuing regarding the fundraiser that they wanted to do, which was the same thing they'd done last year but apparently there had been issues last year or they thought there would be issues this year or something, and they needed to resolve it _now_ because they were running out of time and _no one_ was willing to accept _responsibility_ for it except Pepper herself, but she had too much else going on, and she just _couldn't_ but everyone just _expected_ her to and...

Or at least that's what Clint had gathered before he'd basically tuned out completely, absently twisting one of Natasha's curls around his finger as he tried to think about nothing at all, which was really difficult, he was discovering.

There was a moment of absolute silence when Sam interrupted the seemingly endless stream of words coming from Pepper's mouth (and had she breathed even once?) as they all came back to themselves, tense because they couldn't be sure what was going to happen. Pepper was almost unfailingly polite, and Sam was a good-natured guy, but there was an edge to his voice that had them on instantly on guard.

"No offense," he added belatedly to Pepper. "I mean, I'm sure it's all really important, but—"

"It's not," Pepper said. "It's not important at all, and that's what I keep telling myself, but there are things that you know in your heart, but you can't convince your head, you know? That's kind of where I'm at, which I guess is what I was trying to say all along."

"Right," Sam said, and Clint was pretty sure that he _didn't_ know, and now he wasn't quite sure how to proceed. 

"Go ahead," Pepper prompted him. 

"Right," he said again. "So... I feel like there's an elephant in the room, and I'm really sick of not talking about it. So can we just be real for a minute here, and actually get it out in the open?"

Now they were all even more on edge, because none of them (or at least Clint was assuming) had any idea what the elephant that Sam was referring to was. None of them were about to ask, either, so they just waited for him to continue.

"What, exactly, is your problem with me?"

They all looked around, but he was staring at Jessica as he asked it, and finally she looked back at him, and if she'd been a dog her hackles would have been up, and Clint felt Natasha sit up from where she'd been slumped against him, ready to intervene, he assumed, if necessary. What form that intervention might take was still to be determined.

"I don't have a problem with you," Jessica said, her voice tight, each word clipped. 

"Yeah you do," Sam said. "It's pretty obvious you do. You've never really made much of a point of trying to hide it."

"I've never said anything to you," Jessica protested. "Why the hell would you think that I have a problem with you when I've never said a word to you."

Which wasn't entirely true. She'd said three words to him, total, back during that first meeting when they'd all introduced themselves. Clint remembered it, and he was sure that Natasha did too. It gave him a pretty good idea of what Jessica's problem with Sam was, but apparently it hadn't clued Sam in at all.

"Yeah, well maybe that's part of the problem," Sam said. "You ignore me. You look right past me even when you look at everyone else in the room, and you don't say anything to me. You act like I don't even exist... except when I catch you glaring at me when you think I don't see. Maybe you think you're subtle, but you're not. So I want to know what problem it is that you've got with me. Because I've pretty much got three guesses and the first two don't count."

Clint looked at Mr. Coulson, waiting for him to step in, to intervene before this got ugly, but he didn't. _Now is not the moment for him to decide to let us work things out like adults,_ he thought, but of course he didn't – couldn't – say it, not even to Natasha, not even in sign, because it would have drawn attention to them and the last thing he wanted was to get dragged into whatever was about to go down.

"Oh really?" Jessica asked. "What's your guess, then?"

"The same shit, different century," Sam said. "I know there aren't many of us here, and maybe you don't like having your lily-white school sullied by—"

Jessica snorted. "Really? _Really?_ You think I have a problem with you because you're black? I don't care if you're _purple_ , as long as you keep your God away from me."

And now Sam was the one staring, because it appeared that yeah, that was exactly what he'd thought, and now he had no clue what Jessica was talking about. From the looks on their faces, neither did Loki, Pepper, or Bobbi... but then they didn't really know the details of where Jess had come from.

Maybe they were about to find out.

"My God?" Sam's forehead furrowed, his eyebrows drawing together. "When have I ever brought up God here? When have I ever talked about religion at all?"

"You don't have to," Jessica said. "Your father is a minister. It's just there."

"Like... what?" Sam shook his head. "Sorry, but that doesn't make any sense."

"You grow up being told that things are a certain way, you can't help believing it," Jessica said. "It doesn't matter if you talk about it or not."

Now Sam was looking at her as if she was crazy, and Clint wasn't so sure that she hadn't lost her mind, at least a little bit. Because wasn't what she was saying kind of the complete opposite of pretty much her whole life? Hadn't she been raised to believe certain things, and she'd fought to get away from that because she _didn't_ believe it, and that's how she'd ended up here?

He nudged Natasha, who glanced at him and gave a half shrug and a quick shake of her head. She didn't know either. 

"So you think that just because my father's a minister, somehow my God-vibes are gonna infect you if you have to spend too much time in a room with me?" Sam asked. "Because that's pretty much not how it works. And anyway, I don't know what I believe. Sure, maybe I believe some of the stuff that I've been taught all my life, but that doesn't mean I don't question it. There are good things about the Christian way of thinking. But there are also good things about the Muslim way of thinking, and Jewish, Buddhist, Taoist... I don't like to set limits on myself. And no matter what I believe, I'm not gonna force that down your throat, or anyone's."

"That would be a first," Jessica said. And then before Sam could respond the bell rang and she was up and out of her seat and out the door before anyone could even attempt to stop her.

"Well that was dramatic," Sam said. "Sorry. I didn't... I really thought..." He shrugged, putting his hands up. "I was just sick of her always glaring at me like I'd done something to her."

"I should have intervened," Mr. Coulson said. "I apologize."

Sam shrugged. "No worries. We'll figure it out." He picked up his bag and left like nothing had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is really short. It's been a rough week, and I wrote this at 8:00 pm last night just so that I would have _something_ to post. Next week will be better, I promise!


	6. Chapter 6

"How many more weeks of this do we have to do?" Clint asked as they pushed open the door to the room where tutoring happened and were immediately buffeted by a wave of noise. 

"Too many," Natasha replied, and he put his arm around her and squeezed, because he knew that it was worse for her than it was for him. Kind of. Mostly. 

The truth was, he didn't really mind it all that much, but then he was only working with one kid. Natasha often get stuck with two of three kids at a time, and the week before she'd gotten so fed up with them that she'd told them that if they wanted to spend their lives stupid, that was fine with her. They'd expected that someone would call her during the week to tell her not to come back, but either the girls hadn't told their parents, their parents hadn't complained about it, or the people in charge of the tutoring program had decided that the complaint wasn't worth following up on. Whatever the case was, Natasha still had to show up.

For Clint, the frustration mostly came from Lewis's absolute refusal to sign. He'd really thought they were making progress over the summer, but now they were back to square one... or worse. Was there a square zero? Square negative one? Because he found himself getting close to losing his temper a lot more often, now that he knew that communication _was_ possible. He suspected Lewis was frustrated, too, because he _wanted_ to be understood, but between his difficulties with speech (which were _significant_ ), Clint's difficulties with hearing in general, and the noise of the room, there was pretty much no chance of Clint picking up on what the boy was saying without having to have him repeat it three times.

The plus side was that Lewis was getting a lot of practice writing. Clint had brought in a white board and some colored markers, and when they were headed toward the point of meltdown because Lewis was saying the same thing over and over again and Clint still wasn't getting it, he could usually be convinced to try to write it down. His spelling was atrocious, but as long as Clint read it phonetically, he could usually figure it out. Sometimes they had to resort to illustration.

Today Lewis didn't actually have much homework, and seemed to be in a cooperative mood, so they got it done quickly. Afterward, they played a game that didn't involve talking, but after Lewis had won three times in a row, Clint was bored, so he asked him, signing and speaking as he always did, hoping that maybe, finally, something in Lewis would crack and he would just sign back, "What are you going to be for Halloween?"

Lewis shrugged. 

"You don't know? You haven't decided yet?"

The boy shook his head. 

"Do you have any ideas?" Clint asked. 

He shook his head again.

"No ideas? None at all?"

Lewis shrugged again, then pointed his finger at Clint. After a second, he pulled his hand back to his chest, tucking his hands under his arms. 

"Me? Me what?" Clint asked. 

The boy's eyes rolled up, then darted side to side, and Clint prepared himself to chase if he decided to bolt. He didn't, though. Unfortunately, he also didn't say anything else, leaving Clint to continue the largely one-sided conversation.

"You want to be me for Halloween?" he asked, grinning, figuring maybe he could at least get a laugh out of the kid. 

It didn't get a laugh, though. It got a grin, and a nod, and a string of syllables that didn't seem to add up to anything. 

"You want to be _me_ for Halloween?" Clint repeated.

Lewis nodded again emphatically, then bounced up to his feet and mimed like he was drawing a bow, then letting an arrow fly. 

" _Oh_ ," Clint said. "You want to be an archer. Like Robin Hood?" He'd almost forgotten that he'd taken the boy to the archery range at camp one time, even though he was a little too young for it. 

Lewis pointed at him again. 

"I don't think being me would be a very good costume," Clint said. "No one would know who you are. But if you were Robin Hood, people would know. That's what I was last year."

He seemed to consider this for a few moments, then shrugged, then nodded. Then he pushed a piece of paper and a pencil into Clint's hands, and mimed drawing on it.

"You want me to draw a picture of what Robin Hood looks like?" Clint asked. When the boy nodded so hard that it looked like his head might fall off, Clint did as he was asked. It wasn't a great sketch; he wasn't much of an artist, but it was enough to get the point across, and maybe for Lewis to show his parents what he wanted. Clint got the feeling, though, that if it couldn't be bought in a bag off the shelf, the kid wasn't going to get it. 

Then something else occurred to him, and he said, "And hey, maybe don't tell your parents it was me who gave you the idea, huh?" Which felt wrong – _really_ wrong – but also necessary because he knew from his one brief interaction with Lewis's parents that they didn't like him, and he could guess from the way Lewis had reacted when he'd started to sign one time that it had been very firmly discouraged in his home.

Which was idiotic, and Clint wished he could tell them that. Did his parents actually understand what he was saying? He didn't have a lot of experience with people with children, but he got the feeling that they were better able to decipher really small children's babbling better than the average stranger, just because they were used the particular noises that their own kid used for things, even if it didn't even remotely resemble English to anyone else. (Or any other language, he assumed. It wasn't like Chinese kids were going to be any more adept at speaking when they were still figuring out how to put one foot in front of the other and get to the spoon to their mouth than ones who spoke English, right?)

So maybe they _did_ understand Lewis, and thought everything was fine... but he really didn't think that was it. He could be wrong, but if he had to make a bet, his money would be on the fact that his parents told him to shut up and stay out of their way, go play by himself, something like that. 

Lewis tucked the drawing away in his backpack, giving it a pat before zipping the bag up. Maybe he would show it to his parents, and maybe he wouldn't. Clint didn't know, and it wasn't really any of his business. At least it seemed to make the little boy happy for a few minutes.

Once all of the kids were gone and the place was cleaned up, Clint and Natasha headed out to his car. One look at her told him that she'd had another rough session. _You look like you could use some really bad for you food,_ Clint signed, smiling at her.

_A milkshake. I could really use a milkshake,_ Natasha replied. 

_I know just the place._ Clint drove them to an ice cream place that also served food and parked, sending off a quick text to Mrs. Sullivan to let her know that he was having dinner out and not to wait for him. He hoped that she wouldn't flip out at the last minute-ness of it; she'd been getting better about being flexible, at least in regards to him, so hopefully it would be all right. He knew that she wasn't expecting him to _do_ anything that night at home, because of having to do community service.

He ordered a burger, and Natasha ordered grilled cheese, and they got both milkshakes because that was the whole point, wasn't it? Once she had a little sugar and grease in her system, she seemed to unknot a little. _I really don't understand how they can care so little,_ Natasha said. _I was working with a girl who is in second grade and can barely read, and she just smiles and bats her eyelashes at me, and seems to think that that will get her out of having to actually do the work. Does she think that she can get through the rest of her life that way?_

_I don't know,_ Clint said. _Does she have some kind of learning disability?_

_Not that they've told me,_ Natasha said. _You'd think they would, if she does._

_If they know about it,_ Clint said. _Did you ask Steve?_

_Yes. He said they didn't have anything in her file... but the files are sketchy at best. He said that he thinks the after school program is kind of a dumping ground for a lot of those kids. Their parents just want a place for them to be, and it doesn't cost them anything, so it gets them out of their hair for a little while, and hopefully gets their homework done so that they don't have to try to make their kids do it at home. He said that some of the parents seem to really care about the kids' success, but those parents usually are trying to work with them at home, too, and so those are the kids who aren't acting up as much, because they actually have some kind of work ethic, some kind of feeling that it's actually important. He says usually those parents are maybe under-educated themselves, so they don't feel **qualified** to help their kid get ahead, but they want them to have more opportunities than they have themselves._

_I think Lewis is probably one of the dumping ground kids,_ Clint told her. _I think his parents just don't want to deal with him. **Refuse** to deal with him. Maybe think that there's nothing to deal with. But... it's not just me, right? It's not just my ears? He really is almost impossible to understand?_

_It's not just you,_ Natasha replied. _Believe me. There's a reason that no one wanted to deal with him this summer. Until you started working with him, you pretty much had to hope that he wouldn't feel the urge to talk, because as soon as he started and then had to keep repeating myself, he would start throwing a tantrum._

_He won't sign now,_ Clint said. He hadn't told Natasha before; it hadn't come up, or it had slipped his mind, or something. _He started to one time, and then he started hitting himself, smacking his hands like he was doing something he wasn't supposed to._

_Did you tell Steve?_

_Tell him what?,_ Clint asked. _That a kid with issues has issues?_

Natasha grimaced, but he thought that it was probably because she saw his point. The little boy's behavior had always been weird. Was it really worth potentially opening a giant can of worms over something that was probably nothing?

Unless it wasn't nothing. They spent a lot of time acting as if something was nothing. Not just him and Natasha, but all of their friends. They downplayed things that really bothered them, and even their resident drama queen, Loki, as much as he griped about anything and everything, Clint got the feeling that when it came down to what he really felt, deep down, he wasn't really saying the half of it. Not about the things that really mattered. 

Some of them pretended to be an open book, like Bobbi, but there were still depths there that she wasn't shining any light into. Not yet. Carol put on a façade but he knew she had problems – big ones – that she wasn't willing to admit to... even to herself. And you couldn't save someone who wasn't willing to save themselves, right?

But could they really apply that to a kid? They did what they did out of self-preservation, mostly, or because they'd learned the hard way that they shouldn't, _couldn't_ trust the adults in their lives. Parents let them down. Teachers let them down. Authority figures let them down, turned a blind eye, just weren't even present in the first place. 

So they sucked it up and figured out how to work around the system, rather than through it. But hadn't they learned with Natasha that sometimes you had to put some faith in the system, even when it had failed you before? There was no way that she was getting out of the situation that she was in alive without the intervention of Mr. Coulson, Mr. Fury, and the fucking FBI. 

Lewis's situation wasn't that dire (he hoped) but it was pretty clear that his parents were letting him down, except in that they'd sent him to summer camp, and now to an after school tutoring program, so they must care at least a little bit about him, right? And his teachers... well, he didn't know what was going on with him in school. There was no way that he was functioning in a regular classroom, though, was there? Not unless the teacher just never called on him, never let him participate because he couldn't be understood. And he would hate that, wouldn't he? He would melt down just like when he wanted to be heard at camp and couldn't get the words out.

It wasn't a matter for the cops or anyone else, but... well, he was an adult, wasn't he? At least legally he was, and he was sure as hell older than Lewis, and if every other adult he knew was letting him down, wasn't it his responsibility to step up? 

_Maybe I should,_ he said after a minute. _Tell Steve. Or someone._ Because it wasn't like Steve was in charge of the program, and it put him in the middle of what could possibly be a sticky situation. But maybe Steve would at least have some advice on how to handle things... right?

Or maybe Lewis's parents would find out that he was meddling and pull him out of the program, and then what would happen to him? 

Why couldn't any of this be easy? 

"Being an adult sucks."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Is that what we are?"

"More or less."

"Mostly more," Natasha said softly, almost too soft for him to hear.

"Yeah, exactly," Clint said, and sighed, and when Natasha got up and joined him on his side of the booth, he just wrapped one arm around her and let her rest her head on his shoulder, and he didn't care that people were looking at them, and probably had been for a while, with their hands flying around like they had been.

"It had to happen sometime," Natasha pointed out.

"Couldn't it have at least waited until graduation?" Clint asked.

She smiled wryly. "I don't think it works that way."

"I don't think it does either," Clint said, and sighed again, and medicated his growing pains with a milkshake.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint wasn't sure how long his phone had been buzzing before he picked it up. He blinked and tried to change the brightness of the screen so that he could look at it without pain, but accidentally answered the call instead. "Hold on," he said to whoever was on the other end. "Just a second."

It was probably a wrong number anyway, since it didn't come up with a name. He finally managed to fumble one hearing aid into his ear (the other he knocked off his night table and onto the floor; he would have to find it later) and pressed the phone to his ear. "What?"

"Clint?"

"Yeah?" Not a wrong number, then. "Who's this?"

"Carol."

"Carol?" Clint looked around like she was going to suddenly appear in his room, and felt like an idiot. But the clock glowing next to his bed told him that it was 3:47 am, so he didn't really think he should be held accountable. 3:47 am, and a Thursday. "What the fuck?"

She laughed. At least he thought the sound that she made was a laugh. Of course the hearing aid he'd dropped was the one for his good ear. (Better ear – neither of them were _good_.) "I know, right?" 

She sounded way too cheerful, and it put Clint on edge. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," she said. "I mean... well, not nothing. Something. No big deal. Just... my truck? My dad's truck? Is out of gas."

"Call AAA," Clint said. "That's what they're there for, right? I know you must have it."

"I do," Carol said, "but I'm on my parents' membership and I don't want them to know. They might call them or something and I don't want them to know."

"Why not?" Clint asked. "Everyone makes mistakes. That's kind of the whole point of paying for a service like that, I thought."

"Can you spare me the lecture?" The sunshine had gone out of her voice. He wasn't sure if she was asking for him to spare her _his_ lecture (had he been lecturing? He thought he was just asking logical questions, but what kind of logic really applied when it was almost four in the morning?) or spare her the lecture that her parents would give her if they found out about her running out of gas.

"What do you want me to do?" Clint asked.

"Can you just bring me some gas?"

"I don't think I have a gas can," he said, but then remembered that they did, for the lawn mower and the snow blower that Mr. Sullivan had finally decided to invest in after too many hours spent shoveling. "Actually, we do. Are you _sure_ you can't call AAA?"

"I'm sure," Carol said. "You're a prince among men." She hung up.

Clint looked down at his phone, and for a second he considered going back to sleep. She hadn't told him where she was. How was he supposed to bring her anything? But chances were she'd sit there waiting (and the nights weren't particularly warm) for a long time before realizing it and calling him back. (Or maybe actually calling for roadside assistance, but he had his doubts about her changing her mind about that.)

So he hit the button to call her back, and she picked up a few seconds later. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Are you coming?"

"Yes," Clint said. "I'm coming. But you didn't tell me where you are."

"Oh." She laughed, and there was something a little... manic... in the sound. "Right. I guess you probably need to know that. It would help if _I_ know, huh?"

"Are you serious?"

"A little bit." But she managed to give him good enough directions that he would probably be able to find her... eventually. She was a good forty minutes away even if he didn't get lost, and what the fuck had she been doing out in the middle of nowhere like that? But he didn't ask.

He left a note for the Sullivans, because there was a non-zero chance that they would be getting up for work and to get the kids ready for school before he got back... which meant there was an absolutely zero chance of him getting any more sleep before school. 

"Fuck you, Carol," he grumbled at his steering wheel, even as he pulled out the driveway. There was some gas in the gas can, but he didn't know how much, so he went to the gas station and filled it up, then got onto the highway, heading out for East Where-Am-I to rescue Carol... again.

Well, not exactly again, he mused, because what else did he have to do? The first time he'd gone out it had been to rescue Jessica... and before that it was always Natasha. But Carol had been involved in the Jessica situation, and it had basically been her fault, so again pretty much applied.

He found the truck, and Carol in it, almost by chance. If he hadn't happened to glance to the side as he was driving, just to try to avoid the absolute mind-numbing monotony of driving on a mostly empty highway (at least it _claimed_ to be a highway, but at this point there was only one lane of traffic going in either direction so he wasn't sure that actually qualified), he would have driven right past, because the truck was entirely off the road, pointed downhill into a small ditch.

Clint pulled over and got out, and when he went to the truck he found that Carol had fallen asleep, her head tipped against the window, lolling at an angle that was going to leave a crick in her neck. He knocked on the window and she woke with a jerk, looking at him with alarm before realizing who it was. She rolled down the window.

And he immediately knew why she didn't want to call AAA, and why she didn't want her parents to know, and why (maybe) she was in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. 

She was drunk. Or she had been drunk. She reeked of booze and cigarette smoke (probably second hand; she'd never actually seen her smoke) and she looked rather worse for the wear. 

"My hero!" she said, and released the flap that covered the gas cap, then stumbled out of the car to help him... which wasn't actually particularly helpful, so he finally convinced her that he had it and she could just stand there. 

"You know I can't let you drive home, though," Clint said. "Right?"

"What?" She looked at him as if what he'd said actually didn't make sense. "Of course I have to drive home. If I don't have my dad's truck back by the time he gets up, he'll kill me."

"Yeah, well, if he knew that you'd been driving his truck drunk, he'd probably kill you, too," Clint said. "Except he probably wouldn't have to, because you'd probably kill yourself on the way."

"I'm not drunk," she said. "I had, like, one beer, and that was hours ago."

"I can smell it on you," Clint said. "I can smell it on your breath. I'm not letting you drive."

"You can't stop me," she said, her eyes narrowing. "What are you going to do? Take away the keys?"

"To start," Clint said. "And if you didn't agree to let me give you a ride home after that, then I would call the cops."

He prayed that she wouldn't call his bluff, because that's exactly what it was. He wouldn't call the cops on her. She could have her license taken away, considering she was driving under the influence while too young to legally drink in the first place. 

_It would serve her right,_ he thought, but that didn't change the fact that he wouldn't actually do it. 

"You would not," Carol said. "You never would. You hate the cops."

"I don't hate the cops," Clint said. He didn't particularly _like_ them, either, but then he didn't really like anyone in authority. He'd seen it thrown around too many times when it didn't need to be, and other times not exercised when it should have been to really believe that they had the greater good in mind all the time. 

"You still wouldn't call them."

He crossed his arms. "Do you really want to find out?"

She crossed her arms back at him. "We're not leaving the truck here. You don't want me to drive, fine, but you drive me home in the truck. But then what are you going to do about your car?"

"Why should I try to keep you out of trouble with your dad?" Clint asked. "You got yourself into this mess. Why shouldn't you have to live with the consequences?"

"Because he already thinks I'm a complete loser and a failure," Carol said. "If I don't bring that truck back, he might kick me out of the house or something."

"What happened to your car?" Clint asked. 

"It's in the shop. Again."

Clint sighed. "Okay, fine. I'll drive you home in the damn truck, and I'll figure out what to do about my car later." He would just have to hope that no police cars came down this road any time soon to ticket it as an abandoned vehicle or something. 

Once she was settled into the passenger's seat, and he'd figured out the quirks of the truck, they were on the road. It didn't feel good to leave his car behind, at all. With his (non-existent) luck, when he came back it would be gone, or stripped or something. But apparently saving his drunken friend's ass –   
_again_ – was more important.

He thought about giving her that lecture that she'd wanted to be spared, but every time he thought of something to say, he realized that it would just lead to an argument, and he was too damned tired to argue. So he just stayed quiet, and once the truck was parked and she was safely inside, he started the long walk home... which took longer than he'd thought it would. 

Mrs. Sullivan took one look at him when he came in and her eyes narrowed. "Go shower," she said, "you smell like cigarettes." (Carol's dad's truck was steeped in the scent. The ashtray had been overflowing.

"Sorry," he said. 

"What time did you leave?"

"Four. A little before."

She shook her head. "Are you going to be able to make it through school today?"

"I have to, don't I?"

Mrs. Sullivan sighed. "Shower. Go to bed. I'll call you in sick."

"Thanks," Clint said. 

He got the feeling that the discussion wasn't entirely over, but the only thing that Mrs. Sullivan said at that moment, as he went back down the hall toward the stairs, was, "You should tell your friend to get AAA."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the last post! I got 10 extra minutes of sleep instead of posting before work.


	8. Chapter 8

"Seriously? You're such a control freak," Carol said. "I'm a good driver!"

_Maybe when you're sober,_ Clint thought, but of course he couldn't say that out loud. Not when Jessica was standing right there. He'd told Natasha about what had happened, mostly because he'd had to tell her why he'd missed school, but as far as he knew she hadn't told Jess anything about it, and neither had Carol. 

Not that he thought that Carol wasn't sober at the moment, but he wasn't about to get up in her face to try and smell her breath. Anyway, she was smart enough to know to use mouthwash to cover up the smell of alcohol, or drink something like vodka that didn't leave evidence behind. 

_Smart for values of smart that include how to cover up the fact that you have a drinking problem that you won't admit to._ He looked at Carol and shook his head. "No one drives my car but me, and your car isn't big enough for all of us."

"Natasha can sit in your lap," Carol said. "It'll be fine. We've put four people in the truck before."

"Because that's totally legal," he said, not quite managing to keep the edge out of his voice.

"Since when have you cared about legal?" Carol asked. "Come on. Live a little."

"I'm trying to live a lot," Clint argued, "which is why I'm not getting into your deathtrap of a truck or letting you drive my car. Just tell me where we're going and I'll drive myself."

"That will ruin the surprise," Carol said, and then frowned. "Shit."

"Oh." 

Of course. The surprise. Someone had decided it was necessary to do something for his birthday, and it was supposed to be a surprise.

"I don't like surprises," Clint said. "Just tell me where we're going. I'll pretend I didn't know."

Carol looked like she was going to stay stubborn about it, but Jess wrapped Carol's fingers in her own and squeezed. "Steve's," she said. "Go to Steve's. I'll tell them I let it slip so you don't have to pretend."

"If I didn't think that all three of you would kill me, I'd kiss you right now," Clint said, forcing a smile. The girls laughed, or at least smirked, but he could sense that they weren't all that amused. But it hadn't really been much of a joke. 

He wasn't in a joking mood. He wasn't in the mood to deal with people, either. He'd been hoping that somehow he would make it through the day without anyone bothering to acknowledge that it was his birthday. He'd even forced himself out of bed extra early to make sure that he was out of the house before Mrs. Sullivan got up and insisted on making some kind of special breakfast for him, or saying that he had to come home for a special family dinner or something like that. 

Mr. Sullivan had asked him if there was anything he wanted for his birthday, and Clint had said, "Let me think about it," and then proceeded to pretend to forget that he'd ever been asked in the first place. But what he wanted wasn't anything that his foster father – or anyone else – could give him. What he wanted was a sense of purpose, a sense of direction in life. He wanted reassurance that he hadn't made the worst decision of his life last summer when he'd let his brother ride off into the sunset without him.

He got into his car, and Natasha slipped into the passenger's seat. She touched his arm, letting her hand stay there until he looked at her. _I told them you wouldn't like it,_ she said. _I tried._

_Thanks,_ he signed back. _It's not your fault._

_Maybe it won't be so bad,_ she said, but she didn't look like she believed it. 

_Maybe._ He was tempted to turn left instead of right at the end of the road, heading off in the complete wrong direction, but he didn't. There was nowhere to run, and it would be rude not to show up to his own party. Steve... or someone, all of them, maybe... had put the time and effort into putting together a celebration for his birthday, and he wasn't enough of an asshole to just ignore it.

_Jessica made the cake,_ Natasha added. _She's getting really good, actually._

_What kind?_ , Clint asked. 

_It's a surprise,_ Natasha told him, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. 

_I **hate** surprises,_ Clint said. 

_But you love cake. Come on. We don't have to stay long._

Clint was pretty sure that was a lie; he was kind of obligated to stay for the whole party. Maybe if he was lucky people would have better places to be and it wouldn't last more than a couple of hours. He turned the car towards Steve's apartment, wondering how, exactly, they were going to fit any kind of party into the small space.

The answer, he discovered, was not well. They didn't all shout 'Surprise!' when he came in. They didn't even have the lights off. He was just greeted at the door by Steve's 1000-Watt Boy Scout poster boy smile, and a cheerful, "Happy birthday!"

"Thanks," Clint said. "Thanks for doing this."

"What are friends for?" Steve said. "You guys always do something nice for me on my birthday. I thought it was only fair to return the favor."

Clint didn't bother to point out that Steve's birthday was a national holiday, and that their celebrations were picnics and fireworks displays, which they would likely do even if it wasn't his birthday. Let the guy believe that they went out of his way for him. It made him look better than he actually was.

The place was packed, despite the fact that there were less than a dozen people there. Steve and Peggy, since it was their place, and Natasha and Carol and Jessica. He saw Pepper off to one side, talking with Sam. (How had Steve known to invite him? Someone else from the group must have mentioned him...) Loki wasn't there, but maybe he was lurking in some corner somewhere. And there was Bobbi, coming out of the kitchen, and that was it. 

"Hey," she said, handing him a glass bottle that for a second he thought was actually beer, until he realized that everyone here was underage, and Steve never would have gotten anyone to break the law for them. Root beer, then. 

He twisted off the cap and took a sip. "Hey."

"Do you want one?" Bobbi asked Natasha. "I should have grabbed three."

"I can get it for myself," Natasha said. "Is all right."

"No, take mine," Bobbi said, handing it to her. "Be right back." And she was, just a few seconds later, with another bottle. "Steve got the fancy organic stuff," she said. "It actually tastes like something other than chemicals."

"I like chemicals," Clint said, forcing a smile, but he had to admit that this stuff was better than normal soda. 

"Yeah, well, tell yourself that when you're rotting from the inside out later, but you never die because of all of the preservatives you consumed in your youth," Bobbi said, poker-faced.

"Could that actually happen?" Natasha asked.

The other girl's expression cracked. "Probably not. But you never know. Bruce sends his love, by the way," Bobbi said. "Or he says to wish you happy birthday, anyway, and he wishes he could be here, but he's got some sort of horrible group project that's due early next week and he just couldn't get away."

"No big deal," Clint said, wondering if it was the truth or just a comforting lie that either Bruce or Bobbi had made up. It really didn't matter one way or another; it wasn't like Bruce was under any obligation to put any effort into showing up for something like that. "How is he doing?"

"He's doing really well," Bobbi said. "He's happy, I think. Making friends of his own, not just Tony's acolytes and hangers-on, but having Tony there helps, even though he says that Tony drives him crazy, showing up at his dorm room in the middle of the night to tell him all about his latest brilliant idea."

"Do you think about joining them next year?" Natasha asked her. 

Bobbi's face scrunched up into a look of epic indecision. "Kind of. Not really. On the one hand, it would be nice to have a little bit of a built-in support network, but on the other, there are better biology programs in the country – and the world – and I think I stand a better chance of getting a scholarship somewhere else. And I'd kind of like to maybe move somewhere with better weather."

"Don't go to Russia," Natasha told her. 

"I wouldn't anyway," Bobbi said. "Do you know how little doctors are paid there? Not that I necessarily plan to become a doctor, but it's ridiculous. It's one of the lowest paid professions in Russia."

"A _doctor_?" Clint asked. "I thought they made big money. That's why everyone wants their kids to become doctors and lawyers and all that. So that when they get old they can get shoved into a really expensive retirement home." He grinned, trying to lighten his own mood if no one else's. Not that he knew anything about grandparents, really. He'd never known any of his. 

"Here, yes," Bobbi said. "But here, the field is male-dominated, so they make more. In Russia, being a doctor is thought of as a caring profession – women's work – so it gets paid less. It's more like we think of nurses or social workers, that kind of thing." She looked at Natasha as if seeking confirmation.

Natasha nodded. "Is true. It is for things like that that I will never go back if I can help it."

"If you can help it?" Bobbi asked. "Aren't you...?" But Bobbi didn't know what Natasha was, or how she'd come to be here, or anything about her status. For that matter, neither did Clint, entirely. He hadn't asked lately, because he didn't want to open a can of worms... or face the fact that there was a chance that maybe she _would_ be forced to go back, and what would happen to him then? He'd burned all of his other bridges. 

Natasha shrugged. "I am here on visa, and visa's expire. But after this year, I will apply for student visa, and that will get me more time, and then by the time that is expiring, I will be here long enough I can apply for naturalization and become American."

"What's what you want?" Bobbi asked.

"My life is here," Natasha said. "Of course is what I want."

Clint probably imagined it that Natasha's eyes flicked in his direction when she said that. Wishful thinking, but then it had only been a little over a year since she'd gotten free of her uncle, and it hadn't been an easy year. She hadn't had time to explore the world and see what else there was out there. Once she went off to college...

"What about you?" Bobbi asked, looking at him. "Are you planning to stay around here?" 

"Well I'm not planning on going to Russia," Clint joked, but neither of the girls laughed. "I don't know where I'm going," he said after a moment. "I guess... maybe it would be nice to get away from all of the snow, but if you go south there's hurricanes and if you go west there's tornadoes and if you go all the way west there's earthquakes and wildfires and mudslides and plastic people, or northwest it's all rain, rain, and more rain, so no matter where you go there's a downside, right?"

"But if you could go anywhere," Bobbi asked, "anywhere at all, where would you go?"

Clint shrugged. "I never really thought about it much. It'd be nice to just travel around, wouldn't it? Just spend maybe a month here, a month there, never really settle anywhere until you found the place that you loved most."

Because he couldn't say that he would go wherever Natasha went. That he'd already found the place he loved most and that it wasn't actually a _place_ at all, but a person, because he wasn't used to getting attached to places. 

"So are you just going to apply all over?" Bobbi asked, still pushing for an answer. "It'd be hard, not being able to go and visit places, I would think. I can't imagine just heading off somewhere, sign unseen, with no idea what it would actually be like."

Clint shrugged. "I'm used to waking up in a different place every few days or weeks. So that's pretty normal for me. Probably I could make the best of it wherever I ended up."

"What about you?" Bobbi asked Natasha, but Clint could still feel her looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "Any idea where you're going to apply?"

"I'm still looking," Natasha said, "but probably I will stay around here." Her forehead furrowed slightly. "I don't mean exactly here," she amended. "But in northeast. In New England. Maybe Boston. I like Boston from when we have gone before."

Bobbi nodded. "Yeah, it's a good city, and there are lots of schools there," she said. "Do you know what you're going to go for?"

"I think I know what I want to do," Natasha said, "but I don't know exactly what program is best for it, so I have a lot of questions to ask, I think, before I decide on anything. And then there is all the troubles of being international student, but not international student at same time. Some schools will make me take test to prove I can speak English, which is very annoying. My English is not perfect, but I understand enough – more – than a lot of students who speak only English."

"You're not an imbecile," Clint said.

Bobbi looked at him like she trying to figure out if he was making a joke. Natasha also looked confused for a moment, then her face cleared and she smiled. "No. I am not imbecile."

"I don't get it," Bobbi said after a second, looking between the two of them.

Natasha looked at him, one eyebrow up, inviting him to explain. 

"When we first met," Clint said, "like within the first week, I think, definitely within the first two, Natasha was all pissed off one day because she was in an ESL class, and they were basically teaching them the ABCs, and she said to me, 'I know all that. I am not imbecile.' And I laughed, and she nearly took my head off until I explained that it was funny because she was using a word that probably most native English speakers never would. Even if her grammar wasn't perfect, she had a better vocabulary than a lot of people."

"Ah," Bobbi said, smiling. "Gotcha. I'm sure that if you really tried, your grammar would be better than most people's. It's not like it's easy, going from the rules of one language to another."

"Exactly!" Natasha said. "And I have three – I learned sign language - _we_ learned sign language – alongside English, so really, when they can prove they are fluent in two other languages, I will prove I am fluent in English."

"You should tell them that, if they try to make you take a test," Clint said. 

"But only if you don't want to go to that school anyway," Bobbi said. "Administrators kind of famously lack senses of humor."

"I will keep in mind," Natasha said. 

Then the conversation was interrupted by the dimming of the lights, and Jessica coming in from the kitchen holding a cake aglow with candles. She set it on the table, and when they were done singing, Clint leaned over and blew them out, making a wish that he doubted would come true, but wasn't that the point of wishing? Shoot for the moon and maybe you'll land among the stars and all that?

When the lights came back on, Clint saw that Jessica had really outdone herself. The cake was chocolate, and there was caramel and coconut and pecans... or at least that's what it looked like to him. "I kind of went for something somewhere between a turtle, German chocolate cake, and that cupcake from the cupcake truck that you love," she said. 

"It looks _amazing_ ," Clint said, and it did. "Thank you."

She shrugged. "Make sure you cut yourself an extra big piece because I don't think it will survive contact with the rest of us."

"I will," he said. He pulled out the candles and started cutting up the cake, making sure there was a piece for everyone... and that his own piece was the biggest. It _was_ his birthday, after all. Nineteen, which didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things, except that he was older than all of the other seniors, and therefore should probably have his life at least a little more together than they did.

He took a bite of the cake and his eyes almost rolled back into his head. Natasha hadn't been kidding; Jessica really was starting to get the hang of this whole cooking and baking thing. She'd come a long way since her arrival the year before. Maybe she'd always had it in her, and she'd just refused to admit it because she didn't want to get shoved into a role that didn't suit her. 

He kind of knew the feeling. But to hell with it. He could figure out his life later. Today he was going to enjoy the party that his friends – because he _had_ friends for the first time in his life, really – had thrown for him.


	9. Chapter 9

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

_Thanks for reminding me that I'm a loser,_ Clint thought, but he didn't say it. It was nice of her to ask, even if he'd already told her half a dozen times that no, he didn't have any plans, even though it was Halloween. With Tony gone, there was no one to throw a party, or no _where_ to throw a party might be more accurate, and although there had been talk that maybe he would come home for the weekend to do something, it hadn't panned out.

"It's okay," he said. "I don't have any plans. Natasha is going to come over in a little bit. And Bobbi," he added when it looked like Mrs. Sullivan might be getting ready to have a problem with the idea of the two of them alone together in the house.

"Who's Bobbi?" Mrs. Sullivan asked.

"A friend of ours," Clint said. "She's a senior, started at our school in the middle of last year. She's part of Mr. Coulson's group, too." He figured if she was social worker approved, his foster mother might be more inclined to be okay with it. 

"What about your other friends – Carol and Jessica?"

" _They_ have better things to do," Clint said, forcing a smile. Carol had been invited to a party by some of her college friends, and Jessica had gone along with her. He kind of got the feeling that Jessica was invited more as a designated driver than Carol's girlfriend, or even friend, but of course he couldn't be sure. He just hoped it wouldn't mean a phone call in the middle of the night, asking him to come rescue one or both of them, since Jess didn't actually have her license yet.

"I really do appreciate you doing this," Mrs. Sullivan said. "It's always seemed only fair that if your kids are out trick-or-treating, that you should give out candy as well. One of us would take the boys out and one of us would stay home with Connor, once we discovered that it was all too much for him. This year, though..." She shrugged.

This year they were worried that even having people coming to the door and the bell ringing all the time would be too much for the kid. Since Devon's departure – actually even before that, since Devon had decided to turn up the attitude to eleven – Connor had been struggling more than usual. Some of it was the upheaval in the house, but some of it was just that he was getting older, and maybe hormones were coming into play, or who knows what. Clint tried not to think too much about it.

All he knew was that there was something going on at Connor's school, some special Halloween party that wouldn't actually scare or excite the kids too much. He had no idea what that would look like, and assumed that it would be incredibly boring for the average kid, but Connor was definitely not average. But Mrs. Sullivan had to go with him; a parent was required to attend with each student; the teachers weren't paid enough to give up their time in the evening to watch the kids. Mr. Sullivan was going out with Kevin, begging candy door-to-door. Which left no one at the house to give out candy to the trick-or-treaters... except Clint.

His foster parents hadn't even really asked him to do it. He'd heard them trying to figure out the logistics of it and he'd actually volunteered. For a second they'd looked at him like he'd grown a second head, like they were trying to figure out what alien race had come and stolen their foster son and replaced him with a pod person. Then they'd started in on the, "Are you sure?" and "Let us know if things change."

Things hadn't changed. He hadn't really wanted them to change. He'd had enough of parties the previous week at his birthday, and even if someone had gotten something together, it would just have been the few of them that he saw all the time, and it would only have highlighted how lame they all could be... or at least how lame he was. He was sure (or he pretended) that they all had social lives separate from the group. Probably they did, which was why no one seemed to be all that inclined to go out of their way to set up some kind of Halloween get-together.

"There should be enough candy," Mrs. Sullivan said. "There are a lot of kids in the neighborhood, so expect it to be pretty busy. Just give each kid one or two pieces, and it should last through the night. Anything that's left over is for you."

"One piece it is, then," Clint joked. 

For a second it looked like Mrs. Sullivan was going to frown – for a second she _did_ frown – until she realized that he wasn't actually serious... and that with him, it was okay to smile at things that were funny even when they weren't (or shouldn't) be funny. He was pretty sure she'd had to develop the habit a long time ago of suppressing amusement at those kinds of things, because sometimes the boys said things in absolute seriousness that were accidentally hilarious, and the worst thing you could do if you didn't want the situation to escalate was to laugh at them.

"You do what you need to do," Mrs. Sullivan said. "I'm going to go make sure Connor is ready."

It took another half hour for her to get him out the door, and that was mildly under protest because he'd been playing a game (even though it wasn't his sanctioned screen time, and it must have killed Mrs. Sullivan to not be able to give him immediate consequences for that; he assumed she would just deduct it from his screen time later). 

The first time the doorbell rang, Clint answered it with the bowl of candy, and was a bit surprised to find that it was Bobbi, done up in what he assumed was zombie makeup, wearing a bloodstained lab coat and equally ragged scrubs. The shirt dipped low enough in the front that he could see the scar where they'd opened her chest to exchange her failing heart for a new one. 

"Don't mind if I do," she said, taking a piece of candy as she stepped inside. "Are you serious? You didn't even dress up a little bit?"

"I'm just handing out candy," Clint said. "I didn't know I was supposed to."

"You are if you don't want to be _lame_ ," she said. 

"I guess I could wear my costume from last year," Clint said. 

"Oh, never mind. I'll hand out the candy." Bobbi rolled her eyes at him, but she was smiling. "Where's Natasha?"

"Not here yet," Clint said. "I'm not sure if she's being dropped off or what's happening," he admitted. He knew that he wasn't supposed to pick her up, but beyond that she hadn't really told him what the plan was. He wasn't sure that she knew. He'd invited her to just come over after school, but she'd said that she had to go home first. Maybe she was dressing up, too. Maybe he really _was_ lame.

"That's good," Bobbi said, "because I'm sure she would have something to say about the fact that you keep looking at my boobs."

"I'm _not_ \--" Clint started, but she wasn't entirely wrong. His eyes did keep getting drawn back to her chest, but not for the reason that she thought. "It's not your boobs – breasts – I'm looking at," he admitted a bit sheepishly. 

"Oh," Bobbi said, not embarrassed in the slightest. "My scar? It's not actually as bad as it looks. I used some makeup to make it stand out more. It looked kind of like this right after, though, and there were big old staples holding me together. Very bride of Frankenstein. Except Frankenstein is the doctor, not the creature, and his bride... I'm pretty sure she meets a sticky end at the hands of the creature, actually. It's been a while since I read it. Have you ever seen Young Frankenstein?"

"No..." Clint said, slightly lost in the rush of words. 

"I wonder if it's on Netflix," Bobbi said. "We'll have to check. I guess we could always pay money for it on Amazon or something, but that's kind of annoying."

The doorbell rang again, and Bobbi answered it. This time it really was trick-or-treaters – young ones, out before it even really got dark – and she gave them each a piece of candy and cooed over their costumes before sending them on their way to the next house.

"Thanks," Clint said.

"For what?" Bobbi asked. 

He shrugged. "Coming over."

"You mean thanks for being the third wheel so your parents will let you have you girlfriend over when they're not here to supervise? No problem. Just don't ditch me, huh?"

Clint smiled crookedly. "I wasn't planning on it," he said. He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, which had started vibrating, and saw that it was a text from Natasha, letting him know that she was on her way. He texted back to tell her that Bobbi was already here.

"Ask her if she's ever seen Young Frankenstein," Bobbi said.

Clint texted the question, and got an answer a moment later. "No, she hasn't."

"I would ask how that was possible, but carnies, wolves, I know the deal."

Clint grinned. "Exactly."

"We'll see if we can watch it online. It's funny. Have you ever seen Robin Hood: Men in Tights?" 

Clint shook his head. 

"Criminal," Bobbi said. "We need to sit down and have a parody movie marathon. You take the world too seriously."

Clint's eyebrows went up. "No one's ever accused me of _that_ before." Usually it was the opposite. His teachers didn't think he took school seriously enough, his foster parents... well, they'd pretty much gotten off his case about most things, since he'd gotten himself a job both summers that he'd been there, and he was still doing volunteer work (even though it was required for school) and doing yard work for people now, and he would shovel snow in the winter. So it wasn't like he was just goofing off all the time.

"Are you kidding? The two of you are like... Doom and Gloom. Not always, but sometimes I just look over at the two of you and you're lost in your own little worlds, and it's like you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like you don't know how to just relax and have fun."

It was moments like this when Clint remembered how little Bobbi knew about them. She hadn't been around when Natasha had told the rest of the group about the time she'd wanted to die. She didn't know pretty much any of Natasha's story, and the part that Clint had played in it. Hell, he wasn't sure how much she knew about his story, either, even though he didn't keep it quite so close to his chest as Natasha did.

He shrugged. "Not a lot of opportunities for that, I guess," he said.

"You grew up in the _circus_ and you say you haven't had a lot of opportunities for fun? That sounds... implausible."

"I grew up the son of a drunk and a punching bag, _working_ from the time I was old enough to lift a tent pole or haul a tool box. The circus is only the circus for the people who come enjoy the show; for the people who work it, it's just... work. And not an easy one."

Bobbi frowned, looking down like she didn't know what to say. It hadn't been his intention to shut her down like that... or at least he didn't think it was. But maybe it was better if they didn't talk about it. "Well, you're allowed to have fun now, is all I'm saying."

"I know," Clint said. "That's why I invited you, and not Loki."

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Does he realize that he creates ninety percent of his own problems?"

"He wouldn't know what to do with himself if he didn't have something to complain about," Clint said.

The doorbell rang then, and they answered it, handing out little pieces of candy to a cluster of kids in costumes that Clint mostly didn't recognize. He was way too young to be this out of touch, he thought, or maybe the costumes just sucked. At least they weren't all the cheap drugstore jobs; it looked like the parents might have actually helped the kids out a little bit to make sure they didn't look lame.

As they were retreating down the driveway, Mr. Fury's car pulled up, and Natasha climbed out of the passenger seat, her backpack over her shoulder. She waved to him and came up to the door. "Nice costume," she told Bobbi as she came inside. 

"Thanks," Bobbi said. "I've been given door answered duty, since the two of you apparently couldn't be bothered."

"Halloween is not really a thing in Russia," Natasha said. "I dress up last year for Tony's party, but this year there's no party so I think there is no point."

"The point is it's fun," Bobbi said. "But it's all right. I don't mind answering the door. What are we doing for food? I probably should have eaten before I came over, but I didn't."

"We can order pizza if you want," Clint said. "We don't have a mixer here and I can't go to get stuff from the grocery store, so we can't make it."

"You make your own pizza?" Bobbi asked.

"Every Sunday," Natasha said. "You can come maybe sometime."

"I'd like that," Bobbi said. "But pizza would be great, even if it's not homemade."

"You want anything on it?" Clint asked.

"I'm not picky."

"We usually just get cheese."

"Works for me." And then the doorbell rang, and Bobbi answered it while Clint called for pizza, since the place that they liked was too small for online ordering like a lot of the chains had, which would have made his life a lot easier, since bad connections, thick accents, and hearing impairments didn't mix... to the point where Natasha finally took the phone from him to make sure that the pizza place had it straight, even though one large cheese pizza shouldn't be all that complicated.

"You know what they should have," he said once she hung up. "They should have an app that you can put all the information in, and then it gets sent to someone who makes the phone call for you. Think how much trouble that would save me. Let someone else do the fighting."

"I wonder if they do," Bobbi said. "If not... I wonder if you can, like, sell that idea to someone. I bet you're not the only person who would like something like that. Other hearing impaired people, for one, but some people just really hate making phone calls. Like it makes them anxious. You might not be able to do it for stuff that involves a lot of personal information, but just for ordering pizza, that kind of thing... it'd be really useful."

"Tony maybe could make something like this," Natasha said. "He could make app."

"The trouble would be getting the people to be on the other end of it," Clint said. "There would have to be some kind of... something. I don't think people would just volunteer."

"You never know," Bobbi said. "It could be like a really low-stress crisis intervention hotline kind of thing. With 'I need a pizza and I don't want to call' being a crisis." She grinned. "But yeah, most likely people would want to be paid."

There was a lull in the trick-or-treaters long enough for them to determine that Young Frankenstein was not available on Netflix or Amazon Instant Video. "You know what else would be awesome? Movie delivery. Like Netflix, but you could order it and the DVD would be delivered to your house within an hour."

"Clearly we need to run world," Natasha said.

"Clearly," Bobbi said, bouncing up when the doorbell rang again. After that, she barely got to sit down. When the pizza guy arrived, she tipped him generously with cash and candy, and sent him on his way, handing candy out to kids in between bites of pizza that dripped grease. 

"Our pizza is better," Natasha said, leaning close to Clint to whisper it into his ear.

"I know," he whispered back.

Around 7:30, it started to pour, and the temperature had dropped enough that there was no way anyone was going to persevere through it. The doorbell stopped ringing, and not long after Mr. Sullivan and Kevin got home. He was rationed a few pieces of candy, and then the rest was put away where he couldn't get at it. It would probably last him until Christmas, because he was only allowed a few pieces a day.

"I think you guys can call it a night," Mr. Sullivan said. "And the rest of the candy in the bowl is yours."

"Do you want to come over to my place?" Bobbi said. "Or run me home to get some movies to watch here?"

"Is your mom going to be weird about you having us over?" Clint asked.

"I don't know," Bobbi said. "Might as well find out."

"Is that okay?" Clint asked Mr. Sullivan.

"The night is yours," he said. "Just keep me posted on your plans so we don't worry if you don't come home. Thank you all for helping out."

"Any time," Bobbi said, smiling at him. She waited for Clint to go get his coat and keys, and dump the leftover candy in a bag to take with them. They'd never actually been inside Bobbi's house before, and Clint wasn't really surprised to see that it was really nice... in a kind of stuffy, HGTV kind of way. Like they might be having people over at any minute, and don't make a mess. 

"Come down to the basement," Bobbi said. "That's where the media room is... by which I mean a room with a TV and DVD player, that is actually comfortable to be in." She grinned and led them downstairs. "My brother's out with friends so it's just us."

There was a big sectional sofa, and Natasha and Clint fitted themselves against each other in the corner. Bobbi tossed them a blanket, claiming that it tended to get a little chilly down there, and put in Young Frankenstein.

"Thanks for coming over," she said, looking slightly sheepish. "It's... good to have friends again."

"Any time," Clint said, because what else was he supposed to say to that? Natasha's hand found his under the blankets and squeezed, which he figured meant he'd gotten something right for once. He leaned his cheek against her hair and settled in to watch the movie, to see what all of Bobbi's fuss was about.

Halfway through a second movie, Natasha was asleep in his arms, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Bobbi looked over at him. "You can stay," she said softly. "Um, obviously."

"Your mom's okay with it?"

Bobbi shrugged. "She will be. I won't give her a choice."

"Okay," Clint said, and texted Mr. Sullivan to let him know. "Thanks."

"Yeah, well," Bobbi said with a shrug. "What are friends for?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Remember, everyone," Mr. Lawton said, a few minutes before the bell was about to ring. "Tomorrow is not just a day off from school. Tomorrow is Election Day. I know that most of you aren't old enough to vote yet, but a few of you are, and this is your first opportunity to really have a say in the future of our state, and in the country when voting for your senators. I know it's not as exciting as voting for president, but there are a lot of close races, and every vote matters."

Someone raised their hand, but didn't wait to be called on to speak. "That's not true, though," she said. "With the Electoral College, every vote _doesn't_ count. Not really. You could vote, and even if the vote is split basically fifty-fifty, all of the state's votes will go toward the candidate that had the just the tiniest edge. So the people who voted for the other candidate, even if they're almost half of the state, their votes don't mean anything."

"The Electoral College only applies to the presidential race," Mr. Lawton said. "Pretty much every other race is run by popular vote, and so every vote definitely does count, and there's a good chance that for the governor's race this year, things may come down to a very small margin. So I strongly encourage those of you who are able to to get out to the polls and make your voice heard."

"But what's the point, really?" someone else said. "I mean... I've been watching the commercials – or actually I've been trying not to watch the commercials but unless you watch everything on DVR it's pretty much unavoidable – and from what I've heard, both of the options pretty much suck."

"That's one way of looking at it," Mr. Lawton said. "This has definitely been one of the most antagonistic campaigns I've seen. I've seen very few positive ads; basically everything you see is one candidate attacking another. So if that's how you want to look at it, you can still vote for the person that you think sucks less." He flashed a smile as the bell rang. "And for those of you who aren't eligible to vote yet, have a great day off. I'll see you all on Wednesday."

Clint got up, and Natasha rose beside him, a dark look on her face. He waited until they were in the hall, lost in the surge of students moving from one place to another, before asking, _What's wrong?_

_Nothing,_ she said. _It doesn't matter._

_It **does** matter, if it's bothering you,_ Clint protested.

_No, it doesn't,_ Natasha said. _I'm not old enough to vote anyway, even if I could._

Oh. Clint reached out and touched her shoulder lightly, just for a second. _It's only a matter of time,_ he said, trying to be reassuring. _Maybe by the next election..._

_That's in two years,_ Natasha said. _In two years, I will still be a Russian citizen, and I'll still be unable to vote when it really matters._

_But it doesn't,_ Clint said. _You heard what they said. As long as the state goes for a candidate, and as far as the president goes, it's pretty much guaranteed that New England is going to go for the Democratic candidate no matter what, any votes against them don't count. Not that you would be voting against them... would you?_

Not that Clint knew much... or anything... about politics, except what he'd learned in the past couple of months in Civics class, and he guessed the last few years in history class, but he was pretty sure that Natasha was no Republican. 

_Were you **not** listening?_ , she snapped back. _That only applies to the president. What about senators? That's more important than the president, in some ways, because they're the ones who introduce bills to try to make them law. The president can sign or veto them, but even then they have the ability to override it if they have sufficient support. What if some asshole decides to introduce a bill that makes it harder for people to get citizenship? What if they decide to overturn Roe v. Wade? It's easy for you. You don't have to worry about anything. You're a white man. You have no idea what it's like to have to worry about someone else can strip you of your rights, because no one would. Pretty much no matter who gets voted into office, they're still standing up for you._

Clint lifted his hands to respond, but he didn't know what to say. He hadn't really thought about it... but wasn't that her point? He hadn't thought about it because he didn't _need_ to think about it. He wasn't under any kind of threat, just by being himself. Except if any of the things that Natasha said could happen, or was worried might happen, actually happened, then it would affect him, because it would affect her.

_I'm sorry,_ he said. _I didn't think._

_You aren't around Carol as much as I am, I guess,_ Natasha said after a second's hesitation and a few deep breaths. _She's been going on and on about things, and sometimes I just want to tell her to shut up about it, because I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear how bad things are, or how bad things could get, when I don't have the chance to do anything about it._

He tried to force a smile, but it ended up crooked and half-assed, and he eventually gave up. _What can I do?_

_Vote,_ Natasha replied adamantly. _At least one of us can have a say._

He nodded, and that was the end of the conversation because he didn't want to admit that he had no idea _how_ one went about voting. He knew that he was registered because they'd all filled out voter registration cards on the first day of class. (Which, for the boys, had the unwanted side effect of registering them for the draft if it were reinstated, but he didn't actually have to worry about that because if he was ever called up he would be immediately exempt because of his hearing.) But beyond that, he had no clue.

He was pretty sure that his parents had never voted. When would they have, and how? They'd never lived in one place long enough to be considered residents, as far as he knew, and he was pretty sure even if they had they wouldn't have bothered. What did they care about how the country was run? The circus was its own little world, and as far as he remembered, the politics of the outside world rarely touched it, except when they affected the economy, and it cut into their bottom line because people weren't willing to pay money for something as frivolous as the circus.

It left him with only one choice, he decided. He sent a text message to Steve: 'How do you vote?'

The reply didn't come for a little while; Clint assumed that Steve must have been in class. 'I'm not registered with a party, but usually Democrat. Why?'

Clint couldn't help smiling at that, but it was an embarrassed kind of smile and he was glad that he wasn't actually having this conversation face to face, where it would be infinitely more embarrassing, having to watch Steve's reaction to his absolute ignorance. 'No,' he sent back. 'I mean, how do you vote? How do you know where to go?'

This time the reply was quicker. 'Oh, sorry! You can look it up online, if you didn't get a card. It's by address, so you can probably just ask your foster parents. They would know.'

'Okay,' Clint said. 'Thanks.'

'No problem,' Steve replied, and Clint wondered if his friend was laughing at him, wherever he was. Probably he was, and probably better not to think about it.

When he got home, he considered for a moment asking Mrs. Sullivan about where he was supposed to go to vote, but then Connor needed her attention and he decided that it was easier to just go online. So he went upstairs and started up his laptop, typing into Google, 'where do I vote?'

When the page came up with tons of results on how to check whether you were registered to vote and how to find your polling place, he felt a little bit better. Apparently he wasn't the only one who was kind of dumb about these things. Also, apparently it wasn't uncommon for towns to change polling places from year to year, so you couldn't always count on going to the same place from one election to the next. 

He wrote down the address of where he had to go, figuring that he could just program it into his phone to get directions on where to go the next day. He went to bed and struggled to sleep, but it was the opposite of the proverbial kid on Christmas Eve... he was awake because he was stressed, not excited. What if he got it wrong? What if he somehow picked the wrong person and they got elected? Then it would be his fault if everything went to hell. 

Who decided that an eighteen-year-old kid (well, nineteen, now, but he could have voted last year if there had been something to vote on) should have that kind of responsibility?

He eventually slept, but woke up even before his alarm would have normally gone off. He tried to go back to sleep, closing his eyes against the faint rays of light that were creeping over the horizon, but he was only just dawn or maybe not even... dark enough that he could still pretend it was light. But apparently his internal clock was pretty well programmed by now... or maybe his head was just too loud for his body to ignore. Whatever the case, sleep was hopeless.

The website he'd looked at said that the polls opened at 6 am, which meant he could just get up and get it over with now... probably it would be easier, because who else would be up at this hour?

Mrs. Sullivan wasn't even up – she'd let herself sleep in a little bit, he guessed, since she only had to get Connor off to school (he didn't go to a normal public school, so it wasn't closed down for the day to be used as a polling place) and it was Kevin who had to be gotten out of the door first. It made it easier to sneak out the door, and although he thought he saw a flicker at one of the upstairs windows as he turned on his car and pulled out the driveway, he couldn't be sure.

It turned out that just because schools were closed didn't mean that the rest of the world got the day off from work, and there was actually a little bit of a line as everyone who wanted to get their vote cast before their morning commute had gotten there even before the doors opened. It moved quickly, though, and it was only a few minutes before he found himself able to see that the line split into two, or actually really four, depending on your address.

"What street?" the woman behind the little table asked, and he told her. "Name?"

"Clint – Clinton – Barton," he said. 

"ID please?"

He reached into his wallet and pulled out his driver's license. She glanced at it. "Get your ballot from that gentlemen there, find any free booth."

He got his ballot – a larger than normal sheet of paper – and went to one of the little booths, just a small desk at standing height with three little walls and a pen attached to a string so no one could walk off with it. No curtains, nothing that kept anyone from peering over your shoulder, but as he looked around, it didn't seem like anyone was inclined to do so anyway. They were all just minding their own business.

Clint flipped over the sheet and looked at it. It was like the sheets they had to fill in for test sometimes, where you bubbled in your answer and then the teacher just ran it through a machine to see whether you got things right or not. Most of the names on it were vaguely familiar, but he didn't actually know anything about them, not really, and it occurred to him that maybe it was worse to vote clueless than to not vote at all, and he considered just handing the ballot in blank and just being done with it.

But then he thought of Natasha, and the fact that she couldn't vote at all, and how disappointed she would be if he told her that he hadn't ended up voting after all, and how he couldn't lie to her and say he had if he hadn't, because if she didn't see right through him immediately, she would figure it out eventually and be pissed at him not only for not doing it but for lying about it.

He would just have to do the best that he could. 

His stomach gave a little lurch as he set the pen to paper in the first bubble, filling it in completely. He moved on to the next line, remembering something that Mr. Sullivan had said at dinner one night when the election had briefly come up, and he filled in the next bubble. He made it through the ballot, in most cases just voting down the party line because he didn't know enough to do anything different. Hell, in one case he didn't even know _what_ he was voting for, much less _who_. What the hell was a comptroller, anyway?

He looked it over one more time, but it was too late to make any changes. What if he _had_ messed up? Would they have given him a clean ballot to start over on? Was that something they would do, or would he have been out of luck? 

"Just put it in the slot," the man sitting by the big electronic box (scanner?) said. "It doesn't matter which way – it's equally likely to reject it either way." 

They could do that? They could reject a ballot? How could they do that? But Clint's ballot slid in without a problem, and the man handed him a big red, white and blue sticker that said, 'I Voted Today!' Clint hesitated, then peeled it off its paper and stuck it to his hoodie. He'd done it; he might as well let the world know.

But more important than the world was _his_ world, and the person at the center of it. Instead of driving home, he drove out to Natasha's house, meeting Mr. Fury as he was coming out. "A principal's work is never done," he said at Clint's questioning look. "Go on in. She's still in bed."

"Thanks," Clint said.

"Don't forget to lock the door behind you."

"I won't." Clint stepped inside, and locked the door as he'd been told before going up to Natasha's room. He knocked lightly on the door, but didn't hear any sound from inside so he cracked it open. "'Tasha?"

He peered through the crack, and saw that she was looking at him, her hair tousled as she pushed herself up on one elbow. _What are you doing here?_ , she asked, even as she lifted the corner of the blanket and shifted back to make a place for him.

He toed off his shoes and climbed in beside her. _I wanted to see you._

_Just see me?_ , she asked, the corner of her mouth quirking.

_Not just see,_ he replied, and kissed her softly. 

_Okay,_ she said, and then reached for the zipper of his hoodie, tugging it down to slide her arms underneath, to burrow into the warm of this chest. It was then that she noticed the sticker there, and touched it with a fingertip. "Thank you," she whispered, almost too quietly to hear. 

"No," he said. "Thank _you_."

Her forehead furrowed. _For what?_

_For reminding me that I am more than my past, and better than._

_Did you ever doubt?_

_All the damn time,_ he told her. 

_You shouldn't._

_It's not that easy._

She hesitated before replying, _I know._

And then they didn't say anything more for a while, and the silence was heavy and deep, and they clung to each other in the middle of it, lost in their own worlds but together somehow because it was all they had to keep themselves afloat.


	11. Chapter 11

"Come on," Loki wheedled, leaning in towards Pepper. "You can tell me. You know that I won't tell anyone!"

"You know that I can't," Pepper replied, "and furthermore, that I won't. Everyone will find out at the same time, when the audition sign-up sheet goes up tomorrow morning."

The musical. Again. Clint leaned back into the corner of the couch. It was all anyone had talked about in acting class for the last several weeks. Normally the announcement for what show they were going to do would have been posted at the end of the school year before, but for some reason last year that hadn't happened. Now auditions were a week away, and they still didn't know what they were auditioning for.

"Wait," Sam said, as if he'd just realized what was being talked about. " _She_ knows?"

"Of course she knows," Loki said tartly. "She's the student director."

" _What?!_ " Sam stumbled back, clutching his chest like he'd just been dealt the shock of a lifetime, collapsing into a chair. "Why didn't anyone tell me? I could have been sucking up all this time and I had no idea!"

Pepper smirked. "I don't play favorites," she said. "So it wouldn't have done any good. Anyway, the casting decisions really aren't up to me. I mostly spend my time herding cats."

"And by 'cats' you mean hip young dudes such as myself?" Sam asked.

She laughed. "Something like that."

Natasha came in and sat next to Clint. _What are we talking about?_ , she asked, not really bothering to hide the fact that she was signing to him as they had for so long. The cat was pretty much out of bag as far as that went. They'd been partnered up in acting class (which Clint was grateful for; he wouldn't have wanted to end up working with Loki or one of the other drama – by which he meant melodramatic – kids in the class) and their teacher had decided that for their final scene, they would do a scene from a play called _Children of a Lesser God_. Clint assumed it was because of his deafness, which he hadn't been able to hide despite his best efforts, and anyway it was probably on his file or whatever. 

The irony of the scene was that he was playing the hearing character, and Natasha was playing the deaf one. But they both had to sign in it, since his role was as a speech teacher for deaf students, and so now people knew that they could. They still didn't, mostly, because it tended to make a lot of people uncomfortable, it seemed like. Like Jessica, who always assumed when they started signing in her presence that they were talking about her. And he guessed maybe it was kind of rude, to slip into a language that no one else knew. Sometimes they didn't care, and sometimes it was just easier, but mostly they still kept it as their own thing.

_The musical,_ he replied. _What else?_

She rolled her eyes as she sat next to him. _Loki still trying to pry it out of Pepper?_

_Obviously. Now Sam is in on it._

She rolled her eyes again. _Wonderful._

_They'll know soon. Then we'll get to listen to them panic because the song they've been preparing all summer or whatever is wrong and they have to figure out a new one in only a couple of days._ At least that's what Clint had heard some of the kids complaining about during a break in class one time. Like it was the worst possible thing that could have happened to him, and he'd wanted to tell them that if that was their biggest worry, they were pretty damned lucky and should probably just shut up about it because it made them sounded like spoiled brats... which, of course, a lot of them were.

But the conversation – which mostly consisted of pleading from the boys and smug, knowing looks from Pepper – got cut short by Mr. Coulson's arrival, and today's discussion, which seemed to be about how to deal with stress. Clint didn't really pay attention; he dealt with stress just fine. If by 'just fine' one meant with absolutely no skill whatsoever, and probably in not so healthy ways.

But then he wasn't getting drunk every weekend... or maybe it was up to every night, he wasn't sure... like Carol, so that had to be something, right? He hadn't had to bail her out since the time she'd called him in the middle of the night, but a few times he'd seen her and she'd seemed either hung over, slightly drunk, or both. (And yes, it was more than possible to be both – he'd seen it way too many times to want any part of it.) She was miserable at the community college, despite Steve's best efforts to convince her that it really wasn't that bad, and that she was saving so much money by being there, and she would have all of her gen eds covered when she went to a four year school, and...

Carol tuned him out most of the time, Clint was pretty sure. Tuned him out and took another drink. He'd thought about asking Jess about it, but he wasn't sure it was his place, and anyway, did he really want to rock the boat if she hadn't noticed? Maybe it wasn't as bad as Clint thought...

The bell rang, and he shook himself out of his reverie. Natasha was looking at him strangely. He shrugged and smiled crookedly by way of explanation, which of course it wasn't at all. She looked ready to say something, or ask something, but then she didn't, and he wondered if it was because she decided it wasn't worth it, or maybe it just wasn't the right time. He guessed he would find out later.

Whatever it was, if it had been anything, must not have been important, because she didn't bring it up later. They talked a little bit that night about nothing in particular, and the next morning they headed for the drama club bulletin board to see the big announcement, even though it really didn't make a difference to them, since they wouldn't be auditioning.

They were greeted by ear-piercing shrieks as Pepper stepped away from the board. Some of the drama kids just stood there with their mouths hanging open, while others were talking so loudly, and at such a high pitch, that Clint really wished he was entirely deaf. 

"Holy shit," he heard from behind him, and turned to see Loki standing there, thankfully taking the role of one of the stunned into near silence rather than the screechers. "I did not see that coming."

"What?" Clint asked, despite himself. 

"What do you mean, what?" Loki asked. "Can you not read?"

"I can read," Clint snapped. 

"Do you really have no idea?" Loki was looking at him like he had to be joking, and if he wasn't joking, he had to be a complete moron. 

"Circus, remember?" he replied, hating that he had to ask Loki for clarification as to why this was all such a big deal. He'd never even _heard_ of the show. 

"Wolves," Natasha added, coming to his defense. Clint wondered if she actually knew, and just assumed he had as well until that moment, if she was just playing along to make him feel like less of an idiot. 

"You've seriously never heard of _Les Misérables_?" Loki asked. "It's only one of the biggest shows in the history of musical theater. And they made a movie of it last year."

Clint shrugged. "Not really my thing," he said, and it wasn't. He'd worked on the shows the past few years because his friends had asked him to, not because he cared at all about the theater. If Loki wanted to think that made him some kind of cultural numbskull, so be it. 

Loki shook his head. "Well, it's huge. _Huge_. I never thought this school, of all places, would do something like it. We always do really old stuff... stuff that it's probably cheap to get the rights to, because no one cares anymore."

"Right," Clint said, and started to walk away, because he didn't actually want to have this conversation – or any conversation, really – with Loki at the moment. He started to walk away, and nearly walked right into Pepper.

She was beaming. "Exciting, huh?" She drew them to one side of the lobby. "It wasn't meant to be this whole big secret for so long, but at first we weren't sure we were going to be able to get the rights – obviously there's even bigger demand than before because of the movie – and then there was a question of whether we were going to be able to _afford_ to do something this big, and so we've been planning all summer to do a show that we weren't sure up until a couple of weeks ago whether we were actually going to get the opportunity to do, and trying to come up with contingency plans, and when we finally got the okay on everything at that point it just seemed like we might as well wait to announce it until right before the auditions. I wanted to tell you guys, I really did, but I was sworn to secrecy because we didn't want there to be any chance of it getting out and then people being disappointed if it didn't happen. I tried to tell them – the faculty, I mean – that it wasn't fair to leave other members of the staff in the dark, even if they're students, because they needed the chance to plan, too, but they—"

"Staff?" Clint asked. "What do you mean, staff?"

Pepper gave him a look eerily reminiscent of the one he'd just escaped from Loki. "What do you mean, what do I mean? I..." Her voice trailed off, and when she spoke again, it was as if all of the animation had been drained from her. "I assumed that you would be stage managing again," she said. "And that you would be in charge of costumes."

The look on her face as she realized that she hadn't actually asked them if they were planning to do so, or would be willing, was the face of a kid who'd just found out that Christmas was canceled. And not just this Christmas, either, but every Christmas for the rest of forever. "I'm sorry. I should have—"

"We'll do it," Natasha replied. 

"Uh..." Clint said. 

"Of course we'll do it," Natasha repeated. "You know that you can count on us."

And Christmas was back on. "Thank you! Thank you so much. There's a meeting this afternoon after school. I'm not sure if they're actually planning to get everyone together, but you might as well come. I mean, if you can."

"We'll be there," Natasha said. 

"Great!" Pepper looked like she wanted to throw her arms around both of them, but she restrained herself. "I'll see you later then."

Natasha smiled, and Clint managed to close his mouth and nod. "Later."

Once Pepper was gone, he looked at Natasha, and she looked back at him, a challenge in her eyes. He wasn't allowed to back out now, even though he'd never committed to anything. Even though eventually he was going to let her down, and maybe it was better that it happened sooner rather than later, this wasn't the time to take that stand. Not when it wasn't just her he would be letting down.

_I guess we'll have to watch the movie,_ he signed to Natasha as they walked away.

_I guess so,_ she replied. 

But first there was the meeting. They arrived, and the faculty in charge of the drama club looked at them like they weren't sure why they were there, until Pepper breezed in. "Thanks for coming," she said to them, then looked at the director, producer and whoever else was there – set designer, maybe? – and said, "This is Clint and Natasha. You probably remember them from last year. Clint was the stage manager, and Natasha ran the costume crew. I thought it might be nice to have them in on things from the beginning, so they're not trying to play catch-up later."

If anyone thought to protest, it never made it past their lips, and Clint wondered at where Pepper got the... charisma, he guessed, or presence, or whatever it was... that allowed her to just tell adults what was going to happen and they went along with it. 

He was somewhat reassured when Steve arrived, taking a seat. "Sorry I'm late," he said. 

"Didn't you graduate, like, two years ago?" one of the faculty teased him.

"I just can't get enough," Steve said. "Anyway, you keep asking me back."

"Silly us," the woman, a teacher that Clint didn't know, replied. "Shall we get started?"

Clint tried hard to follow what was going on, but it seemed like pretty much everyone in the room had the bad habit of talking over each other, and it didn't take long for him to be completely lost. Natasha sat beside him, frowning and taking notes. He glanced over her shoulder to see what she was writing, only to discover that it was not in English. The little symbols that scrawled across the page might have been Russian – there was a word for the Russian alphabet that he couldn't remember – or it might have been Martian for all that he could make heads or tails of it. He finally sat back in his seat, giving up and hoping that maybe she could explain it all to him later.

"This is the biggest production we've ever attempted to mount," the director said. "I don't think I need to tell any of you here how huge it is. It's going to mean a lot of hours of work, and I need to know that everyone," and he was looking at Clint and Natasha, mostly, "is ready to commit to that. I know that we all have other things outside of here that are also important, but this might take over your lives for the next few months, and I need to know that you're prepared to dedicate as much time as you can to making this successful."

"I am ready," Natasha said. 

Clint swallowed. "Yeah. I, uh, I'll spend as much time as it takes."

The Sullivans weren't going to be thrilled. Not that they would have to be shuttling him back and forth or anything, but he knew that Mrs. Sullivan was going to give him a lecture about focusing on school and keeping his grades up and no overextending himself, especially going into the winter where he would also be needing to do shoveling and that kind of thing when it snowed to keep him in gas money. Not that they'd gotten on his case lately about it, but once or twice lately they'd asked him about college applications. He'd always managed to make sure his mouth was full so that he didn't have to answer, just made a vague muffled noise that might have been agreement.

It was probably stupid to commit to this, especially without Carol around to help him. What good was he going to be backstage on a headset? He'd tried it a couple of times last year and he'd had a hard time deciphering what people were saying. He needed an assistant to handle that for him, but that meant finding someone he trusted... and he didn't trust anyone.

Yeah, this was a really bad idea.

And although they hadn't actually made him sign anything, he was pretty sure that he'd just signed away his soul, at least for the next four months.


	12. Chapter 12

"So," Bobbi said, sliding into the seat next to Natasha at the lunch table they'd been forced to take up because it was too cold to go outside (the high was only going to be a little above freezing, and wasn't it too early in the year for that? It seemed like it ought to be...) and when they'd tried to just find an out-of-the-way corner to hide in, away from the noise of the cafeteria, some teacher or hall monitor or something with a stick up his ass had decided to tell them it was go where they could be properly supervised or get detention.

They'd decided it really wasn't worth detention, especially since Pepper would kill them if they were late to the next musical production staff meeting, so they'd found a table in the corner, and had mostly been eating in silence.

"So what?" Natasha asked, her tone not exactly cold, but not exactly warm, either. Tepid, but then she'd been in a bad mood all day. Clint had tried to ask what was wrong, but she'd brushed the question aside in favor of poking at the leftovers she'd packed for lunch. 

"So I had an idea," Bobbi said. "Not quite a plan, not yet, because it relies on you. The two of you, I mean."

"What's the idea?" Clint asked, when a few seconds ticked by without Natasha taking the bait, and without Bobbi forging on.

"Bruce's birthday is Saturday, right?" 

Clint nodded, hoping that the question was rhetorical because the truth was he wasn't sure when Bruce's birthday was, although he guessed it was around this time of year last year. Had they done anything? They must have done something – Tony would have thrown him a party, whether he liked it or not, right? 

"I thought it might be nice to surprise him by visiting," Bobbi said. "Going down to Boston, maybe taking him somewhere for a birthday dinner or something." 

Clint wondered if his stare was as blank as Natasha's. He got the feeling that Natasha was keeping her own expression a careful mask, not wanting to give away anything one way or another. Why, he wasn't sure. "Don't you think Tony's doing something for his birthday?" he asked. "I mean, Tony's usually pretty good about that kind of thing."

"I'm sure he probably is," Bobbi said. "He wouldn't pass up on opportunity for a party, ever, from what Bruce has told me. But the thing is... do you really think that's what Bruce wants? A big party with a bunch of people that he probably doesn't even know?"

"Tony would invite his friends," Clint said. "He can be pretty clueless, but he's not _that_ clueless."

"I know," Bobbi said, her cheerful expression starting to slip. "I just wonder if maybe... maybe it would be nice if we showed Bruce that we haven't forgotten him? I mean, it's great that he's got Tony there, it really is. But do you really want to rely on Tony to be his only friend?"

"Has he said something to you?" Natasha asked. 

"Not exactly," Bobbi said. "But there's a lot he's not saying, and I _know_ he's not saying it... you know? Do you get that feeling sometimes? You're talking to someone and they're telling you something, and you just _know_ that it's not the whole story."

Clint looked at Natasha, who looked back at him, and they didn't need to say a word to each other, or to Bobbi either. They both knew that feeling well.

"So yeah, I'm not worried that he's going to do anything stupid or anything. I'm just worried that he's a little bit lonely. He's made some friends, obviously, but new friends can't replace old ones, you know? And we're the ones who know him best." 

"Isn't he come home next week, though, for Thanksgiving?" Clint asked.

"Yes," Bobbi said. "I just..." Her certainty was starting to falter. Clint could see it, and it made him feel bad for asking the question. "I just thought it would be nice. It would just be for the day." She shrugged. 

"Why you are asking us, not others?" Natasha asked. "We are not closer to Bruce than others are."

"No..." Bobbi said. "But I figured maybe you would be up for a trip to Boston. To get away from everything for a little while."

"Oh," Clint said, one corner of his mouth curving up. "So it's not so much that you want the pleasure of our company as that you figured we wouldn't have other plans."

"That's not what I said!" Bobbi replied, defensive before she saw that he was smiling. "But if you're looking for ulterior motives... there's no way my mother would let me take her car to Boston. Especially not on my own."

"So really, you're just asking me because I have a car," Clint said. 

"Not _just_ ," Bobbi argued. "But yes, that did play a role in the decision."

He laughed. "Fair enough. But couldn't you tell your mom that you were going to do a college visit or something?"

"If I told her that, she would insist on coming along," Bobbi said, scrunching up her face. "That's pretty much the last thing I want."

"Does she know you are going?" Natasha asked.

"I told her that I wanted to. She said that I could if I found someone to drive me there. I don't think she thinks I'll actually manage it." Her sour expression curdled further. 

"If you're trying to guilt trip me, it—" Clint started, but Bobbi cut him off.

"I'm not. I'm not trying to guilt trip you at all. I thought maybe you would be interested, but obviously you're not, so—"

"I didn't say that," Clint protested, holding out a hand to stop her from getting up and walking away. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give you a hard time or anything. It's a good idea, really. If he sounds like he's homesick or whatever. You guys did something for me for my birthday, and I can see Tony deciding to do something that he think is for Bruce but is really for himself, and going overboard, and Bruce getting lost in the shuffle and ending up being miserable at his own birthday party."

"I don't know if I can do," Natasha said, "but I will ask."

"Of course," Bobbi said. "I didn't even think about that." She looked back and forth between them. "I guess that's a little weird, isn't it? Obviously you're a little older than I am, Clint, but I tend to think of both of you as kind of already being adults, like you just get to do what you want, when you want, and you don't really answer to anyone."

"That's not really how it works," Clint said, "although the Sullivans have loosened up a lot since I started living with them."

"Mr. Fury..." Natasha shrugged. "He is Mr. Fury. Maybe he will say yes and maybe he will say no."

"I hope he says yes," Bobbi said. "I'd really like to go."

"If he says no, still you can go," Natasha said. "The two of you."

Bobbi looked at her out of the corner of her eye like she was looking to see if there was some kind of catch in the statement, or some kind of test. "I hope he says yes anyway," Bobbi said. "It wouldn't be the same."

"I will ask," Natasha said. 

"Great. I'll talk to you guys later then," Bobbi said, and bounced up, back to her fully cheerful self (which Clint suspected was at least partially a façade, like it was when Carol acted all bouncy, but maybe a little less so with Bobbi). 

"Are you sure you want to go?" he asked Natasha. 

"Is for Bruce," Natasha said. "Why not? And maybe _I_ can tell Mr. Fury is college visit. Not that I am going to MIT."

"Right," Clint said. He wondered if he was supposed to follow up with a question about where she was thinking of going, but it wasn't a conversation that they'd ever really had. It wasn't something that they talked about much at all. Eventually they would have to, but right now it seemed like he could just keep putting it off.

He asked his foster parents that night if they would be okay with him going with Natasha and Bobbi to Boston on Saturday, just for the day, and he was surprised when they said yes without any kind of argument. He'd been expecting at least some kind of token protest, but maybe they'd actually finally accepted that he was an adult, and capable of making decisions for himself that didn't necessarily end in disaster.

Natasha also go permission, and Clint was glad because he wasn't sure what all he and Bobbi would find to talk about during a two hour car ride each way. He picked up Natasha first on Saturday morning, then drove to Bobbi's house, where she threw herself into the back seat like she was diving into a getaway car, and Clint wondered if maybe her mom wasn't as okay with this whole thing as Bobbi had made it seem.

Not his problem, he figured, as he headed for the highway.

"So do you think we're going to hear anything out of Loki's mouth for the rest of the year that isn't about the musical?" Bobbi asked. "When does the cast list go up?"

"Monday," Natasha replied. "First read-through is same day, except how do you read through a show that has no lines?" They'd watched the movie, and there were only a few words spoken the entire time; everything else was sung."

"I guess they'd just read the words to the songs out loud?" Clint suggested. 

"That must make it easier to learn your lines, at least," Bobbi said. "It seems like it would be easier to remember the lyrics to a song than a whole bunch of dialogue."

"And some people – cough, Loki, cough – probably have the entire show memorized anyway," Clint said. "So yeah, I guess that part will be a lot easier. It'll be more about learning the, uh... what's it called? Where they tell them where to go?"

"Choreography?" Bobbi suggested.

Natasha frowned. "That's not the word he is thinking of," she said. "Is a different word, but like that, only just moving – walking, sitting – and not dancing. Is... is..." Her forehead furrowed as she searched for what she was looking for. Finally she pulled out her phone and after a quick google, announced, "Blocking! Is called blocking. But some is choreography, too."

"It almost seems like this show is going to be a lot harder on everyone behind the scenes than the people who are on the stage," Clint said. "There are some crazy sets, and a bunch of costumes, and... Pepper is going to drive herself crazy before it's over, I'm pretty sure."

"What do you do?" Bobbi asked, looking at him, then at Natasha.

"I am in charge of costumes," she said. "Jessica is helping me again, I think. I hope."

"I wish," Clint said. "My help graduated."

"Who helped you?" Bobbi asked. 

"Carol," Clint said. "She actually kind of had a clue what she was doing, unlike me. I was just kind of doing what she told me to do. I didn't – don't – know anything about stage managing. And what if we have a crew like last year?" He cringed. "The barricade will crumble the second anyone looks at it funny, and then revolution will be over before it starts."

"You said that Steve was doing set design, right?"

"Design," Clint said, "not construction."

"But if Steve is doing it, and he graduated, couldn't you maybe get Carol to come back and help out, too? I mean, what would the difference be?" Bobbi asked.

Clint hesitated before answering. He couldn't say that he didn't think Carol would want to come back, or even if she did, that he didn't think they could actually rely on her to be, well, reliable. Or sober. Except maybe it would be good to give her something to focus on? But Steve had kind of been teacher's pet to every teacher in the school, and so he'd kind of gotten special privileges. "I don't think they would make an exception for her," he said finally. "She was only new last year, and I don't think she really... distinguished herself? Not enough that anyone would think that we definitely needed her help, instead of giving the job to someone else, anyway."

"Too bad," Bobbi said. "Do you have anyone else you can ask?"

Clint caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and looked over to see if Natasha had just been scratching her nose or something, or if she'd actually been trying to get his attention. Apparently it was the latter, because when he looked again (glad there was very little traffic around them to worry about) he saw her sign, _You could ask her._

His eyebrows went up. He hadn't even considered that. Did Bobbi know anything about theater at all? She hadn't been part of the show last year, but then she hadn't really been around at that point. Maybe at her old school she'd been in the drama club or something. But wasn't she too busy with Tae Kwon Do? 

_Ask her,_ Natasha said, not so much a suggestion anymore.

_Why?_ , he signed quickly.

She frowned at him. _Why not?_

"Hey guys?" Bobbi said, leaning forward. "Not to interrupt or anything, but... care to clue me in on what's happening?"

Natasha turned to look at her. "Clint has a question for you."

"No, I—" But Bobbi was already looking at him expectantly, and so was Natasha, and why was she suddenly so determined to get Bobbi to help him? He'd thought that maybe Natasha didn't like Bobbi being around him in the first place, but maybe that was just him projecting or whatever. "Look, I know you're busy with school and, and applying for college and Tae Kwon Do and everything."

"I am," Bobbi agreed. "But that's not a question."

"Yeah, no," Clint said. "It's not. But... I mean that means you don't really have time for a lot of other stuff, right? I'm assuming."

Bobbi shrugged. "If I wanted to do something enough, I would make time for it. Why? Did you have something in mind?"

"Well... like I said, I'm stage managing the show this year, because Pepper kind of assumed that I would do it since I did it last year, and as you've probably noticed, Pepper isn't the sort of person that you can really say no to. And with Carol graduated, I need an assistant, because there's no way I can do it alone."

Bobbi's eyebrows went up. "Right. We've been over all of that. And that's still not a question."

"What he is failing to say is will you be assistant stage manager for him?" Natasha said, having clearly given up on Clint ever managing to get the question out.

She looked at him. "Is that really what you were asking? Or not asking?"

"Yes," Clint said. "I guess so."

"You don't sound all that enthusiastic about it," Bobbi said. 

"I just didn't figure you'd be interested with everything else that you've got going on," Clint said. _That, and I don't know what it will be like, working with you that closely, not even knowing whether you know anything about this and what you're getting into, and whether you'll get annoyed by how much of a disaster I can be._

"That's a bad habit to get into," Bobbi said.

"What?" Clint asked.

"Assuming you know what someone else is going to say before you give them a chance to say it," Bobbi said. 

"So then... will you do it?"

"I'm not sure," Bobbi said. "But you've got the whole car ride to convince me."


	13. Chapter 13

When Principal Fury's voice came over the loudspeaker on Wednesday morning announcing that they would be leaving school at 11:00 am due to the weather, Clint's first reaction was relief... and then dread as he realized that it would mean spending more time at home with the boys, since Mrs. Sullivan had already told him that he was expected to come straight home after school, even though he had the next two days off and it wasn't like he had homework to do.

He'd momentarily considered at least stealing the afternoon for himself, but that was quickly squashed by a text message from his foster mother that made it clear that she was aware that the schools were closing early, and she needed him home as soon as possible, and it wasn't safe to be out driving in this weather anyway.

When he got home he discovered that Connor's school had been shut down completely, throwing off his entire routine, and to make matters worse, Mrs. Sullivan's parents had arrived early, wanting to beat the worst of the weather (it hadn't seemed that bad to Clint, but he guessed it was supposed to get worse as the day went on, and people were getting really paranoid about it since it was one of the biggest travel days of the year). 

"In the kitchen," Mrs. Sullivan called before he could try sneaking up the stairs. 

His shoulders slumped and he put down his backpack and toed off his shoes so he didn't drag slush onto the kitchen floors, and went in to say hello or whatever he was expected to do. 

From the looks that Mrs. Sullivan's parents gave him, it was pretty clear that they didn't approve of what their daughter did – not for a living, but it was basically her job – or at the very least they didn't approve of him. Never mind that Connor looked about six seconds from having some kind of meltdown, which if they were lucky would be a sitting in the corner rocking and groaning fit and not a screaming and throwing things fit. 

"It's so nice to meet you finally," her mother said, in a tone that implied the exact opposite. "We'd expected to meet you sooner."

"I'm not a very good traveler," Clint lied. "I get car sick, so long drives really aren't great." He shrugged, his palms upturned like, 'What can you do?' He thought he saw a look of relief flash across Mrs. Sullivan's face, but he wouldn't swear to it.

"I see," she said, and Clint realized then that he didn't actually know Mrs. Sullivan's maiden name, so he had no idea what to call her parents. 'Sir' and 'ma'am', he guessed, if it came to that. They would probably like the show of respect. "Well if you can't bring Muhammad to the mountain, as the saying goes."

"If you say so," he agreed, because he didn't know what expression she was referring to, and he didn't really care, either. He knew that he should try to get along with them, to be on his best behavior, to prove them wrong about him and about what their daughter did, but there was a part of him that wanted to be horrible and prove them right. The only thing that stopped him was the fact that he was pretty sure they would use it against Mrs. Sullivan, and not just be quietly miserable.

"Why don't you go get Connor settled with a video?" Mrs. Sullivan suggested, probably sensing with her sixth sense that was attuned to detecting impending doom that things were going to get ugly if the conversation was allowed to go on much longer.

"Sure," he said, and once that was done he beat a hasty retreat before she could catch him again. 

The rest of the day was relatively uneventful, and the next morning when he woke up he discovered that he wasn't going to be spending nearly as much time as he'd originally thought shoveling, because they'd only gotten maybe two inches of... well, whatever it was, it looked ugly. After he'd grabbed some breakfast he went outside and determined that yes, in fact, it was ugly. It wasn't ice, exactly; he wasn't slipping and sliding everywhere. But it sure as heck wasn't snow, either. It was what happened when what the weather people called wintery mix settled and froze, and it took him over an hour to chip it all off the driveway and sidewalk.

A lot of the people he normally helped out weren't home, and others decided that they'd rather just see if it melted off on its own rather than paying him, so he ended up heading back to the house sooner than he would have liked. He made a token offer of assistance in the kitchen, but Mrs. Sullivan shooed him out, and he went to the living room instead to watch the parade on TV, not because he was actually interested but just because it was there and he wanted to make it look like he was at least a little bit social.

Thanksgiving dinner wasn't as awful as he'd thought it would be, but that wasn't really saying much. They'd never really celebrated Thanksgiving when he was growing up. What did they have to be thankful for? The only turkey his father cared about was Wild Turkey, and he could have that any day of the year. Now it just seemed like a way to torture people with their extended families who they usually avoided as much as they could manage. And the clatter of utensils on dishes, and multiple conversations happening all at once left Clint disoriented so that he only tuned in when someone said his name, and hoped they were just asking him to pass something to them, and that he hadn't somehow missed someone asking him a question. A few times he was pretty sure that it was actually the latter, but his response of, "What?" and the blank stare usually just earned him a reply of, "Never mind." Which suited him fine.

Friday afternoon was the part of the holiday that he'd actually been looking forward to, and he didn't even try to hide how happy he was to see Natasha when he picked her up at Mr. Fury's face, even with Jessica standing in the background, a pie in each hand, rolling her eyes. "Get a room, you two," she said. 

Clint bit his tongue to keep from telling her that he would love to, but they had a previous engagement. They got into his car, Jessica watching over the pie in the back seat while Natasha rode shotgun. "No Carol?" he asked.

"She's meeting us," Jessica said. "At least she says she is."

Clint glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and saw that she was looking out the window, her forehead furrowed and her eyebrows drawn together. He looked at Natasha then, who shrugged slightly and signed, _She was supposed to come over last night and didn't._

_Has that been happening—_ , Clint started, the signs awkwardly formed as he tried to shape them without taking both hands off of the wheel, but he was cut off by Jess.

"I can hear you, you know," she said. "I don't know what you're saying, but I know that you're saying something."

"Sorry," Clint said, figuring it was probably better to let it drop than to risk putting Jess in an even worse mood on their way to a party. They arrived at Tony's a little while later, and Clint was glad to see that they weren't the first ones there, which might have been awkward. Then again, he suspected that Bruce was probably staying with Tony, so even if they had been the first to arrive, they probably wouldn't have been subjected to Tony going full throttle... or Tony being so distracted that he didn't even realize that they were at the door, no matter how many times they knocked and rang the bell.

That was, of course, assuming that Tony hadn't somehow programmed the security cameras to recognize their faces and let them in. Which would have been creepy... and really cool. Maybe he would have to suggest it to Tony if he hadn't already thought of it. 

Steve was there, and Clint was a little surprised that Peggy wasn't with him. "Family stuff," Steve explained, releasing him from the hug that he'd pulled Clint into, like he hadn't seen him in ages even though he'd just seen him on Tuesday. But holidays were probably still pretty raw for Steve, Clint figured. Bobbi was sitting on a couch talking to Bruce, and waved at them when they came in. Pepper arrived not long after them, setting down a big bowl of... Clint wasn't sure what it was a bowl of, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know, either... before collapsing into an armchair like she'd just finished a marathon. 

Thor arrived like a clap of thunder, and Loki like the dark clouds following behind. They really were like night and day when they stood next to each other, Thor big and blonde and endlessly good-natured, and Loki thin and dark and sour. And yet they were brothers, however adopted Loki might be, and it showed in the way that they seemed to fit into each other's space easily, like they were accustomed to the close quarters even when there was more than enough room for them to avoid even seeing each other if they felt like it. Clint was pretty sure that Loki wouldn't want to hear that observation, though, so he kept it to himself.

Sam arrived, and Loki bristled and went to talk to Pepper, which was maybe not the smartest move because she was Sam's most likely target for a conversation, but then somehow Steve was at his side, taking him under his wing like the eternal big brother slash boy scout that he was.

Jess pulled her phone out of her pocket, checking her text message and for any missed calls, then shoved it back in, and pulled it right back out again to send a text. Clint assumed it was to Carol, and also that it wasn't the first that she'd sent. Maybe the first since their arrival, but certainly not today. From the look on Jessica's face – part worry, part rage – she hadn't received a response in a while.

Carol finally came stumbling in, and stumbling _was_ the word, although she tried to play it off like she'd tripped on a pair of shoes that someone hadn't quite lined up neatly in the hall, and waved broadly. Her voice was a little too loud as she called a greeting, and Jessica was at her side in an instant, pulling her back into the hall for a whispered conversation... or confrontation. Clint couldn't tell; he was too far away to hear, and lips were even harder to read in profile, so he finally gave up.

About an hour after they'd all arrived, the food that had been catered for the meal was brought out and laid on the table, along with the dishes that people had brought (Tony had said not to worry about it, but some people had decided to bring stuff anyway), and they all found their seats. 

Clint saw Steve bow his head for a moment, and Sam alongside him, before they dug into their food, but no formal grace was said. Mrs. Sullivan's parents had insisted on it the day before, and there would have been hand-holding to go along with it except Connor hated being touched so they'd managed to dodge that bullet.

When they'd all gotten through their first helpings (or in some cases, second helpings because the first had been consumed so quickly others were still filling their plates by the time they were finished) and everyone's focus wasn't almost solely on the food, Steve looked around from where he sat at the head of the table and smiled. "So," he said. "I know we haven't necessarily been doing this long enough to officially have traditions, but I thought maybe we could do something that we did last year, in the spirit of the holiday. I don't want to put anyone on the spot, but it would be nice if we could go around and everyone could say something that they're thankful for this year."

"And remember," Pepper added, because of course she would be the one to start making rules, "you can't say something that someone else has already said."

"We should make a rule that you can't say the same thing that you did last year," Tony said. "Except I can't remember what I said last year."

"I'm not sure anyone can," Pepper said, "so I guess we wouldn't have any way of enforcing that."

"Maybe we should write it down this time," Steve suggested. 

Pepper laughed. "Even I'm not taking notes at the Thanksgiving dinner table!" She looked back at Steve. "Did you want to get us started?"

"Sure," he said. "This year, I'm thankful for new beginnings." Which meant Peggy, Clint assumed, and the fact that they had moved in together and were... well, he wasn't sure exactly what they were, but he wouldn't be surprised if there was a proposal sooner rather than later. He looked to either side of him, but before he could ask who wanted to go next, Sam sat up a little straighter.

"I'm thankful for having found new friends to share the holidays with," he said. "I love my family, but that many of them for more than a few hours is enough to drive anyone a little bit crazy." He grinned.

"Great," Carol groaned. "Now I'm last, and everything good will be taken."

"We don't have to go in a circle," Steve said. "You can go next if you want to."

"Good," she said. "I am thankful for alcohol, because without it, there is no way that I could get through the holidays with my family." She smiled brightly, and Tony laughed and a few others smiled... but then they probably didn't take her very seriously. Jess, sitting beside her, obviously did, and the silence that followed stretched uncomfortably long as everyone waited for someone to chime in with what they were thankful for.

"I'm thankful for good food," Thor said. "Not that school cafeteria food is _bad_ , exactly, but..."

"But he hasn't actually stopped eating since he got home," Loki finished for him. "This year, I'm thankful for unexpected opportunities." Again, there was a brief pause, but this time it seemed like it was because people were waiting to see if he would elaborate, but he didn't. Clint assumed that he was referring to the casting of the musical. Loki had been hoping, and expecting, to be cast as Javert. Always the villain, never the leading man, as the saying went. (Okay, that wasn't the saying at all.) It was the second largest part in the show, so of course he'd wanted it. But it hadn't really suited his vocal range, and in the end he'd been cast as Enjolras, the leader of the revolutionaries. He'd been disappointed – bitterly disappointed – at first, but now he seemed to have embraced it, which was good, because the last thing that Clint wanted was to have to listen to him complain about it for the next several months.

"I am thankful for early decision," Pepper said. Just before the holiday she'd gotten notification that she'd been accepted to Stanford, and next year she would be pretty much as far away from her parents as she could get without actually leaving the country. Clint was pretty sure it was the best thing that could possibly happen to her right now.

"I am thankful for finally getting my genius recognized by my peers," Tony said, and Clint wasn't sure if the comment was meant to be a joke or not.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I'm thankful for friends, especially ones who go out of their way to remind me that they exist." He glanced over at Bobbi, and past her to Natasha and Clint, and smiled. "It really means a lot, knowing I'm not alone."

Bobbi smiled back at him. "I'm thankful for continued health – my own and everyone else's."

Clint looked around and realized that there were only three of them left to say anything, and since he was sitting next to Bobbi, even though they hadn't started out in a circle, he was pretty sure that everyone expected him to be next. Which was kind of a problem, because he couldn't think of a single thing to say that he was thankful for.

Natasha squeezed his hand lightly. "I am thankful for time, and distance, and the future, whatever it holds."

"I'm thankful for people believing in me," Clint said after a moment, "even when I'm really not sure what reason I've given them to do so." He kind of meant Pepper when he said it, but it was bigger than that, and he was pretty sure at least a few of them understood. He felt Bobbi nudge his foot gently with hers, and he looked over and she smiled. He tried to smile back, but wasn't sure it quite worked out.

And then all eyes were on Jessica. "I'm thankful for dessert," she said. "Who wants some?" And she was up and away from the table without waiting for a response. Thankfully – no pun intended – Carol got up to follow her, and they didn't come back for a long time, but when they did, it seemed like Carol had managed to smooth things over, so they were actually able to enjoy the pie that Jessica had probably spent all morning making.

Dessert led to coffee, and video games and board games and the party stretched past midnight before anyone even thought about going home. Clint stayed with Natasha, and after his hearing aids were out, as he was reaching to switch off the light, Natasha stopped him and signed, _I'm thankful for you every day. Not just today._

_Same,_ he signed, although it felt inadequate. He guessed it must have been enough, though, because she nodded and let him turn off the light, and he felt asleep with her head on his shoulder and her hand on his heart, and suddenly he felt like he had a whole lot more to be thankful for.


	14. Chapter 14

Clint was closest to the door when the doorbell rang, so he answered it, opening the door cautiously like he couldn't be sure who, or what, was going to be on the other side. It was habit more than anything; it wasn't as if there was anything that he was actively worried about right now. But a lifetime of looking over one's shoulder was a hard habit to shake. 

Bobbi stood on the other side, a wrapped package in her hand. "Hey," she said. "I guess I'm late to the party?" She smiled.

He glanced back over his shoulder, then quickly grabbed his coat, shoving his arms through the sleeves as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. "There's not really much of a party," he said. He'd actually forgotten that they – mostly him and Natasha, although they'd gotten Jessica's agreement, considering that it was _her_ birthday party – had invited Bobbi over. They'd invited Pepper as well, but she was busy. (When wasn't she busy, though?) 

"What do you mean?" Bobbi asked. "And what, I'm not allowed in? I brought a present and everything."

"It's just... tense in there," he said. "I could use some air."

"What's going on?" Bobbi asked, her forehead furrowing with concern. "Is everything all right?"

"Not exactly." He sighed, not sure how much to tell her, not sure what she knew already. She was smart, though, and good at reading people, so she probably knew enough that he wouldn’t be blowing anyone's cover or anything if he explained, at least a little. "Carol's not here."

Bobbi's eyebrows drew together further. "Ooookay..." She leaned against the porch railing. "Is that... significant, somehow?"

"She's supposed to be here," Clint said, not sure how else to explain it. "She had to work yesterday, but she was supposed to come over last night after she was done working, and she's not here. Still."

"Oh." She cocked her head, considering. "I'm assuming that she also hasn't called or texted or anything to let you know what's going on? Or let someone know?"

"You assume correctly," Clint said. "Jessica is kind of... flipping out. I'm not sure if it would better for Carol to finally show up or not at this point. Point is, there's not really much of a party because the birthday girl is on a rampage. Which I guess is good for us, in a way, because when she gets really pissed off she cooks, but not so good because when she gets really, _really_ pissed she stops paying attention to details so there's a better than 50-50 chance that whatever she makes will have something wrong with it and not be edible and that just makes her even angrier. We've kind of been stuck in that vicious cycle all day, since this morning's salty pancakes."

"Gross," Bobbi said. "Should I... would it be better if I just went home, then?" she asked. "I don't want to make things worse."

"I don't know," Clint said honestly. "I was thinking maybe I could... or I guess now _we_ could... go see if we could find Carol? Although I wouldn't really have any idea where to look for her, except at home."

"It's as good a place to start as any," Bobbi said. "Do you want to tell them that we're going?"

"I guess I should," he said. He wasn't sure how Natasha would react to him saying that he was leaving her to deal with Jessica alone, and worse he was going with another girl (not that that meant anything; he was pretty sure that Bobbi wasn't interested in him that way, and anyway there was no way he would ever cheat on Natasha). She was pretty much at the limits of her patience already, and she might see this as him running out on her when the going got tough, which wasn't the intention at all.

Or at least it was mostly not the intention.

No, it wasn't the intention at all, to run out on _her_ , but getting himself out of the situation before his head exploded seemed like a pretty good idea, all things considered.

"Just a second," he said, and went back into the house. He went down the short hallway to the kitchen, but didn't see Natasha there. "Where did she go?" he asked.

"I don't know, and I don't care," Jessica said, not looking up from the mixing bowl she was dumping ingredients into. "She can go fuck herself for all I care."

Clint wasn't sure if she was talking about Natasha or Carol. "Um, okay," he said, and went to check upstairs, where he found Natasha in her room, the door not completely closed. "Hey," he said, and waited for her to look up so that she could see him when he signed. _Bobbi just got here but I'm thinking this isn't the best time. We're going to go look for Carol._

_Don't you think if she wanted to be found she would have answered her phone one of the hundred times that we've called her between us?_ , Natasha responded. 

_That doesn't mean we shouldn't look,_ Clint said. 

_So I get to stare here while you leave?_ She was glaring at him, but he suspected that maybe the anger that simmered there behind the carefully blank mask of her face was not all direct at him.

_You can come,_ Clint said. _I just thought it might not be the greatest idea to leave Jessica alone, and you're more used to dealing with her than I am, and Bobbi wouldn't have a clue._

_She's tougher than she looks,_ Natasha said. _You know that._

_I know. But she still doesn't know Jess that well, unless they've gotten to know each other while neither of us was looking._

Natasha hesitated, then sighed and nodded. _Let me know if you find her. I'll try to figure out then if there's any point in bringing her back here._

_I'll talk to you soon,_ he said. Even if he didn't find Carol right away, he would check in on her. It really _wasn't_ fair, what he was doing, but if any of them were going to keep any degree of sanity at all, it needed to be done.

He went back downstairs to find Bobbi shivering on the porch. At least it wasn't as damp as the day before, and as it was supposed to be in the upcoming days. "Let's go," he said, and they got into his car. 

"What's her number?" Bobbi asked. "Maybe if she feels bad she's avoiding you guys calling, but she'll pick up if she gets a call from an unknown number."

"Why would she do that?" Clint asked. "No one picks up for unknown numbers."

"What's her number anyway?" Bobbi asked, and took Clint's phone when he handed it to her, scrolling through his contacts to find Carol. She punched her number into her own phone and dialed, but of course there was no answer. She didn't leave a voicemail. She sat typing for a moment, and Clint assumed she was texting. "I asked her if she was home," Bobbi said. "I didn't tell her why, or that we were looking for her."

"Why else would you be asking?" Clint asked. 

"She knows that I'm helping you with the musical this year, right?" Bobbi asked. "Maybe she'll think that I want to pick her brain about being an assistant stage manager."

"Maybe," Clint said, but it seemed like a long shot to him. 

By the time they pulled into Carol's driveway, Bobbi still hadn't gotten a response. She looked at Clint, frowned slightly as she considered him, then said, "Stay here."

"What? Why?" But Bobbi was already out of the car and headed for the door, and although he thought about getting up to follow her for a second, in the end he just sat back and waited. Which kind of felt like a pattern, when he thought about it. Sometimes he felt like he was a spectator in his own life, and he was just waiting for shit to happen, either around him or to him. He lived in a constant state of waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for people to figure out that he was a... not a fraud, exactly, but something like that. A charlatan? He didn't know. Waiting for people (read: Natasha) to figure out that he wasn't anybody and he wasn't ever going to do anything, and that he wasn't worth their time.

The front door opened, and a second later Bobbi stepped inside, and Clint sat forward in his seat. They wouldn't have let her in if Carol wasn't home, would they? Unless she'd lied and said she was there for some other reason entirely, which was possible but... unlikely? Bobbi didn't seem like the lying type. After all, being a black belt was kind of like being an Eagle Scout or something like that, wasn't it? You were supposed to be honest and honorable and all of those good things... right? 

He waited. And waited. And waited. Finally he got sick of waiting, and picked up his phone and texted Natasha. 'We're at Carol's. Bobbi went in and she's been in there a long time.'

A second later he got a message back: 'Why did Bobbi go in and not you?'

'She just did,' Clint replied. 'I don't know.'

'You didn't follow?'

'She told me to wait. Maybe she thinks because she's a girl she'll be able to get Carol to... whatever Carol needs to do. I don't know. Get her shit together.'

As if talking about her had summoned her, Bobbi finally came out, and a second later Carol followed. They both got into the car – Bobbi in the front and Carol in the back. 

"Jessica pretty much hates you right now," Clint told her without preamble. "Where the hell have you been?"

"At a party," Carol said. "I just woke up."

"You were supposed to come over _last night_ ," Clint pointed out. "Jess has been flipping out, thinking something had happened to you or something."

"Nothing happened," Carol replied. Her voice was dull, her eyes glassy. She was hung over – _very_ hung over – and didn't much seem to care if Clint knew it. "I told her I might go out after work."

"And did you tell her that you weren't coming over after all? Did you tell her that you were going to sleep in? Did you tell her that you were going to forget her birthday completely?" He glared, and felt a flicker of triumph when the finals words actually seemed to hit home. 

"No," she admitted. "I lost my phone. I figured it would be all right, that probably someone from the party just picked it up and I would get it back. I didn't think..." She shrugged. 

"You're right," Clint said. "You didn't think. You don't think about anyone but yourself anymore, it seems like."

"Pot and kettle," she returned. "You're so wrapped up in your pity party that you don't even see that..." Her voice trailed off, though, like she'd lost her train of thought, or like she realized that she didn't actually have anything real to accuse him with. 

Not that she was entirely wrong, but it certainly wasn't a pot and kettle situation. "What the hell is going on with you, anyway?" he demanded. "You spent months wanting her, and now you have her and you treat her like she doesn't matter."

"I don't treat her—"

"It's her _birthday_ and you _disappeared_ ," Clint snapped. "Did you seriously not remember?"

She hung her head. "I knew it was near Christmas," she said. "I guess I forgot the exact date. It's not like she mentioned it."

"It's Pearl Harbor Day!" Clint said. "I would have thought with all of your military history, you would remember it by that, at least." If _he_ could remember the connection between the two, Carol certainly should have been able to. "Or is it just that you've been too drunk to keep track of what day it is?"

Carol opened her mouth, then closed it again. "I'll call her," she said. "Can I borrow your phone? I'll call her right now and..." Again, she didn't seem to quite know where the sentence was going, but she accepted Bobbi's phone when it was offered, and got out of the call.

She was back only a minute later. "You two can go," she said. "She doesn't want to see me, or talk to me, or..." Carol shrugged, but it wasn't a gesture of apathy, but one of helplessness. "I'm pretty sure she means it, too. She's not just saying it hoping I'll do the opposite."

Clint was pretty sure that she was right. "Try calling again later," he offered. "But if you're going to apologize, make sure you mean it. If you're going to tell her that it won't happen again, you'd better mean that too."

Carol nodded, giving Bobbi back her phone. "Thanks for coming over," she said, and went inside.

"Is that true?" Bobbi asked as he backed out of the driveway. "What you said about her being too drunk?"

Clint hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. It's... it was a little bit of a problem last year, but it's only gotten worse. She's got shit going on that she's not talking about, at least not to me, and not to anyone else that I know of, and we can't help if she won't let us, so..." He sighed. "Maybe this will wake her up. I can hope, anyway."

"Yeah," Bobbi said, and they drove in silence for a little while. "Should I just go home?" she asked. "I don't want to make things worse."

"You can come in," Clint said. He wasn't sure it was the best idea, but maybe it would help Jessica to know that there were other people who showed up and remembered her birthday, even if her best friend (and girlfriend? Maybe not so much anymore) didn't. "She made her birthday cake yesterday before she got pissed off, so there's that, and Natasha and I can make pizza ourselves."

"All right," Bobbi said, but she sounded slightly dubious.

When they got to the house, Natasha was downstairs again, in the kitchen when Jessica, who seemed oddly calm. _Is she... okay?_ , Clint asked while Bobbi distracted Jess with the present that she'd brought. A cookbook, almost certainly, or something else to do with cooking, since it was a safe way to go with Jess. 

_No,_ Natasha replied, _but she's not raging anymore. Knowing that Carol's **alive** at least helps. But she's angry._

_She has every right to be._

_I know._ Natasha sighed and leaned into him, even though Bobbi and Jessica were right there, and he brought his hand up to run his fingers through her hair, which tumbled in loose curls, soft as silk – not that he'd ever touched silk that he knew of, but soft as he imagined silk to be – as he massaged her scalp. 

_I love you,_ he signed, keeping it hidden between their bodies, sheltered from the world and everything that might think to threaten it, her, him, them. 

She laced her fingers through his, forming the same sign and moving it between their chests, a silent 'I love you too' before she straightened. "Pizza and movies?" she asked out loud. "It's your birthday so we'll even let you pick, despite your terrible taste in films."

Jessica smiled, but it was forced and painful. "Can it wait a few minutes? I need to call Carol."

"Take all the time you need," Natasha said. "We know where you hid the cake if you take too long."

"Don't you dare," Jessica said.

Natasha just smiled. "Go. We'll get the dough started."

Jessica disappeared upstairs, and Clint wondered how long it would be before they saw her again. He suspected it would be a while, and that there might be tears and shouting before then. 

"Sorry," he said to Bobbi. "Probably not the party you were expecting."

She shrugged. "It's family," she said. "What can you do?"

He turned the words over in his head, and decided there was really nothing to argue with, so he just went for the flour and sent Bobbi to the fridge for the yeast while Natasha cleaned the mixer bowl. Because it was family, and what else could you do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to Jessica, and to me! And no, I didn't give Jess my birthday; it's actually canonically December 7 in Spider-Woman: Origin, which amused me greatly.


	15. Chapter 15

"Pepper wants to know where we are, and I didn't know what to tell her," Bobbi said, sliding her safety glasses back down over her eyes. 

"What do you mean?" Clint asked. "We're right here. Where would she think we were? We're not building the set on stage; she made it pretty clear that we couldn't do that because she needed the space to rehearse, even though it makes more sense to me to –"

"Thank you, Captain Literal," Bobbi replied, rolling her eyes at him. "I'm pretty sure she was looking for a status update. Like are we ahead of schedule, or behind, whether we've got any problems, that kind of thing."

"Oh," Clint said. "Why didn't you say so?"

Bobbi shoved into him, then went to retrieve a drill. She came back a minute later and handed it to him. "You still know what you're doing more than I do," she said before he could protest. "Show me one more time."

So he showed her one more time, and then she took the drill back and got back to work. She didn't have much experience with power tools, although her old school had a technology class in middle school that all students were required to take, so she did know _something_ about them, but she learned fast, and more importantly was _willing_ to learn. She also had a knack for figuring out the strengths and weaknesses of other members of the crew, and making sure that they were given tasks that suited their skill sets.

"So where are we?" she asked a few minutes later, when Clint had come back from checking in on a couple of the kids who had been on the crew the year before. Apparently they had learned something from Carol last year, or maybe they'd taken remedial construction over the summer or something, but they'd actually managed to get the flat that they'd been putting together right the first time, although he'd suggested a few more nails to shore things up a bit. He wasn't taking any chances. 

"Behind," he admitted. "Not _too_ behind, but behind."

"Like how far behind is not too behind? Is there an acceptable amount of behind that a person can be?"

"A day, maybe two," came a voice from the doorway. "Once you start edging toward a week, Pepper starts to panic, and you don't want to see Pepper panic."

"I already have," Bobbi said, looking up and smiling at Carol as she stepped into the room. "It's not pretty."

Carol smiled. "I heard you could use some help," she said, looking more at Clint than at Bobbi. "Although it looks like you've got things pretty well under control."

Clint looked at her, studying her face, wondering if there was any subtle way to get close enough to her to smell if she was drunk. Her eyes looked clear, although there were dark circles under them, and she wasn't swaying on her feet. "I wouldn't mind another set of hands," he said. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she said. "Class got canceled and..." She stopped, shook her head. "Okay, that's a lie. I skipped class because I hate it, and I didn't want to be there. I know I can pass the test without actually being there, and attendance doesn't count for anything in that class, so..." She shrugged. "I figured I would do something useful with my time instead. And maybe Jess will want to go out after or something."

Bobbi raised an eyebrow, asking without asking, but Carol didn't elaborate. She looked at Clint then, but he just shrugged. He didn't really know any more than what she did. Jessica had been on the phone with Carol for almost an hour on her birthday, and when she'd come back to the kitchen her nose was pink and her eyes red-rimmed, but she'd avoided any attempts on their part to ask her what they'd talked about or what was going on. Natasha said she hadn't really said much about it since, but Carol had been over once and there hadn't been any shouting, so that was something.

"Well, like I said, we can use another set of hands. Especially one that knows what it's doing. Although things really hadn't been as bad as they could have been this time. We've only had to take apart and reconstruct one thing, and that wasn't even entirely our fault."

"Not _entirely_?" Carol asked, curious and maybe a little amused.

"We were waiting on lumber for one thing, so I decided to move ahead a little bit and work on another set piece that wasn't scheduled to be done up until the next week, but as far as I could tell, we had all of the supplies for it, so why not? Get ahead, right? Only then they went and changed the set up and although they still needed the piece, the specs for it had changed slightly, so we had to do it over. I guess on the good side we were making it smaller rather than bigger, so we could reuse most of the same parts, just cut down a little."

"That's not too bad," Carol said. "How long did it set you back?"

"About a day, and that was mostly because some of the kids – new kids, not the ones from last year – decided to bitch and moan about it forever instead of just doing what needed to be done."

"Fire 'em," Carol suggested. "Who needs that kind of attitude?"

"We can't fire them," Bobbi said. "Can you fire a volunteer? A _student_ volunteer in a school club?"

Carol made a face. "Okay, probably not. Not unless they were actually dangerous somehow. I mean, if you had someone who was throwing tools around or something, then yeah, you could probably kick them off the crew, although there's probably some kind of three strikes rule or something."

"Probably," Clint agreed. "I finally just told them to shut up and work, and luckily they didn't go running to anyone about it, although probably if they'd gone to Mr. Fury he would have laughed at them, but then they could have claimed..." He frowned. "What's that word for when you get special treatment?"

"Favoritism?" Bobbi suggested. 

"No. Well, yeah, but no, the one because you're practically related to the person who's in charge."

"Oh, nepotism," Bobbi said. "Is it something that people know, though? That you and Natasha are together, and that she's Mr. Fury's foster daughter?"

Clint shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think it's exactly a secret."

"I don't think they publicize it, either," Carol said. "But it's good they didn't go crying to mommy or whatever, though. That's just annoying."

They worked in silence for a little while, spreading out to make sure that everyone knew what the next steps were, so that nothing got lost in the shuffle. When 5:30 rolled around, they were nearly caught up to where they were supposed to be for the day, and so when Pepper stopped in for a status update Clint was able to send her off with a smile on her face, which didn't seem like it happened too often. Like Carol had said, being a day or two behind could be made up and wasn't a cause for panic, and at this point they were less than a day behind – a couple of extra hours on a Saturday and they would be good to go... assuming nothing went wrong.

"It seems like everything is going pretty smoothly," Carol said. "Good job, Mr. Stage Manager."

"There's still plenty of time for disasters," Clint said. "Don't jinx us."

Carol laughed. "It's all in the attitude." She waved as she headed for the door, no doubt going to see if Jessica was still around. As far as Clint knew, they'd been working on costumes all afternoon, and unless something had come up and Mr. Fury had told them they had to go home early, they would be finishing up now like everyone else.

"She seems... a little better," Bobbi said. 

He nodded. "A little. But it's not like she was always drunk all the time."

"You think she has a problem? Like a real problem?"

He hesitated, then nodded. Maybe she didn't get belligerent to the point of violence, but you didn't have to be his dad to be an alcoholic. She drank every day, or nearly every day, from what he knew, and she'd driven drunk before; he knew that for a fact because he'd had to come rescue her. It was enough, at her age, to get her license suspended if not revoked, if she got caught. That qualified as a problem in his book. And she'd forgotten Jessica's birthday. After months of going around in circles, the first real test of their relationship, and she'd failed it, and he wasn't sure if Jess had forgiven her or not. He wasn't sure Carol knew either.

"Should we tell someone?" Bobbi asked. "Mr. Coulson?"

"I don't know," Clint admitted. If they were going to tell anyone, the social worker would be his first choice. He'd helped Natasha, after all, and he was never too pushy about things. "If she doesn't think she has a problem, it's not going to do any good for us to try and tell her that she does."

"You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped," Bobbi said.

"Exactly."

"But what if she does, but she doesn't know how to reach out?"

"I don't know," Clint admitted.

"I don't... I guess I just don't understand how you can be... eighteen? Nineteen? And your life is such a mess that you think drowning it in alcohol is the answer. Especially since she doesn't _act_ like her life is a mess."

"I think maybe that's the problem," Clint said. "She hides it all from all of us, but it's still there, and so what is she going to do except try to make herself numb so she can't feel how much it hurts."

"But what is it that hurts?" Bobbi asked. "That's what I don't really understand. She's not trying to work three jobs to live on her own, she's in school, she's got a girlfriend... It seems like that's pretty good."

"I don't know," he said again. He also didn't know why Bobbi thought that he, of all people, would have a clue about what was eating away at Carol. It wasn't like she had gone out of her way to make him her confidante. But they'd talked sometimes, and maybe he knew more than he thought he did, if he just... well, didn't think about it. If he just let the pieces fall into place. "She lives at home, but she's not happy there. She doesn't really get along with her father. I don't know about her mother. But I think her father is more into traditional roles, like boys do one thing and girls do another. You see how good she is with building stuff – her dad is in construction – but even though all of her brothers have worked for him over the summer, he wouldn't even think about hiring her to work on one of his sites. And then... she's in school, but she's in community college, and even though Steve will tell you that it's a great way to save money, doing your first two years there, I think... Steve can make the best out of anything that's put in front of him. Carol... she's bored. She wants more, and she can't afford more, better, and I think she's scared that this is all she's going to have, and that she's going to get stuck going nowhere."

"Can't she get financial aid or something?" Bobbi asked. 

"I don't know," Clint said. "I think one time she mentioned that her father had said that they could only afford to put one kid through school, and even though Carol is the oldest and has the best grades, he picked her younger brother. So they won't help out, and I guess when you're under a certain age no matter what they look at what your parents make to decide how much money they'll give you?"

"I think that's true," Bobbi said. "It's making filling out financial aid stuff interesting for me, because I haven't spoken to my dad in years and all of a sudden we have to either get his tax returns or prove that he's got nothing to do with me." She looked at him. "I guess it's easier for you, unless they look at your foster parents?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "I haven't really filled anything out."

Her eyebrows went up. "I guess some schools you don't have to worry about the financial aid paperwork right off," she said. "But usually they want you to do it as soon as possible, not wait until you're accepted. You have to have the application, so that they can do their offer pretty soon after the acceptance letter so people can make a decision."

"Yeah," Clint said. "I just..."

The silence stretched. "Just...?"

He shrugged. "We should get out of here. We're probably holding things up for them being able to lock up."

"Right," Bobbi said. "When the going gets tough, the tough run away, huh?"

"What do you mean by that?" Clint asked, and immediately wished that he hadn't because it meant that the conversation would continue when he really didn't want it to.

"I mean that we're having a conversation, and the minute it becomes about you, you pretty much shut down and try to change the subject. Why? What are you hiding, Clint Barton?"

"I'm not hiding anything," Clint said. "I'm an open book." 

Bobbi snorted. "Liar. You pretend to be, but there is so much you don't say, I'm pretty sure it would fill volumes, while the face you present to the world is See Dick Run."

_Oh, so I'm a dick now?_ , Clint thought, but he kept it to himself. He wasn't actually trying to spark an argument with Bobbi. At least he was pretty sure he wasn't. Even though he knew he was playing with fire, there was a part of him that wanted to burn. There was a part of him that wanted to just let it all out, unload everything and make it someone else's problem. 

But Bobbi wasn't the right person. He was pretty sure Bobbi wasn't the right person, because she was just a kid like him... more of a kid than him?... and she had her own problems to deal with, and she hadn't even been around for most of the shit he'd been through since his parents had died and the circus had left him behind. She had no clue, and wouldn't it be better to keep it that way? Everyone else knew too much already, even though did they really know anything?

"I don't run," he said. "When the going gets tough... I don't run. Maybe I don't want to sit here and talk about my _feelings_ to a stranger, but I don't run, and you don't get to say that I do when you haven't been here. You don't know."

"A stranger?" Bobbi asked. "That's what I am now?" Her voice was carefully neutral, her expression slightly less so, but he had a lot of experience looking and listening to what was behind the eyes and the words that were actually being said. 

"Close enough," Clint said. 

"Right." Bobbi shook her head. "Except I'm not. Not as much as you think. Maybe I haven't read the entirety of Encyclopedia Bartonica, but I'm not stupid, and I'm not blind. And hey, maybe you need an outsider's perspective anyway. So if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me." And then she walked away, and he watched her go and hated her because it was easier than hating himself.

He whirled around when he felt a touch on his arm, and found Natasha standing there, her hands up. _Sorry,_ she signed. _I didn't mean to startle you._

_It's okay,_ he said, and pulled her into a hug, burying his face against her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo that was a part of the scent that was _her_ , recognized by some deep down part of his brain even if he wasn't conscious of it, so that something inside of him relaxed even as another part clenched.

_What was that about?_ , Natasha asked when he finally let go of her enough for her to form the words. _With Bobbi._

_I don't know,_ Clint said. _She wants to get inside my head._

_Why?_

_She thinks I'm hiding something._

_From her?_

_I don't know. I'm not._

When had he started lying to her? When had he decided that it was okay to tell her half-truths? Was he trying to spare her something? What? Or was he trying to spare himself?

Maybe Bobbi was right, and he had the urge suddenly to go after her, to demand to know what she thought she knew, what she wasn't blind to that maybe, somehow, he was. But she was gone, and Natasha was there, and that made everything all right, didn't it?

_I don't want to go home,_ he said. _I don't want to take you home._

Natasha's forehead furrowed, then she nodded. _Okay,_ she said. _Where do you want to go?_

_Home,_ he replied, then shook his head because it didn't make sense. _I don't know. It doesn't matter._

_Are you sure you're all right?_ , she asked. _You're acting... strange._

_Just... I don't want to be alone._

_You're not._ A pause, and when he didn't respond, _Okay?_

He took a deep breath, nodded, lied. _Okay._

She knew. He knew she knew and he knew that she knew that he knew, and that she was lying too.

_Okay._


	16. Chapter 16

"Today is the last day, you know," Clint said to Lewis, speaking and signing as he always did, even though he knew that the likelihood of Lewis signing back was still slim. Some days he did, and some days he didn't, and most of the time it was only a word here and there, and even then the boy's eyes darted all around the room like he thought someone was going to jump out of the shadows and yell at him. Almost all of the ground that they'd gained over the summer had been lost, and Clint did most of the talking.

Lewis shook his head, grinning at him and holding up a finger. Clint thought he was saying 'one', but the word (or words – sometimes it was hard to tell) that came after didn't make any sense. 

"One? One more? Next week is Christmas Eve so there's no tutoring," Clint said. "So I won't see you again after today."

Lewis looked at him, his forehead furrowing, and said something, and god, Clint wanted to kill whoever had told him that he shouldn't or couldn't sign. He had his guesses, and he was pretty sure he didn't need three of them, and why didn't the damn school intervene somehow? Hadn't Steve said he was going to talk to someone about it?

Had Clint forgotten to bring it up? 

Shit. He couldn't remember. He was so caught up in his own problems, he wasn't sure if he'd actually done what he'd decided to do for this kid who clearly had issues that needed to be addressed, and who just as clearly wasn't getting the attention that he needed from the people that needed to be giving it. Which wasn't him. Obviously.

And then Lewis, with a quick look one direction, then the other, signed very clearly and pointedly, _**After** Christmas._

"After Christmas it will be new people coming to help," Clint told him. "Not me anymore. This is my last week."

Lewis's eyes went wide. _Why?_ , he demanded. 

_Because new people need to do their volunteer hours,_ Clint signed back, forgetting to say the words, and forgetting too that Lewis didn't know that this was a school assignment for him, something that he'd only done because he had to. What Lewis knew was that his buddy Clint came to see him every week and help him with his homework. What Lewis knew was that he got to see his friend from over the summer who actually took the time to listen to him and try to understand him, even if he had to repeat himself over and over and over again. 

_Why?_ , he asked again, then, "NO," loud and clear, clearer than anything Clint had ever heard him say before. "NO!"

"Yes," Clint said. "I'm sorry."

"NO!" This time it was a scream, and then Lewis was attacking him, throwing himself at Clint and trying to hit him, smacking him in the head and the face until someone rushed over and pulled him away, and then he managed to break free of the person's grip – not Steve, one of the other college-age volunteers – and took off.

"Shit," Clint muttered, not caring that the scene had drawn the attention of every kid in the place and some of them could almost certainly hear him. They weren't supposed to swear around the kids. He wasn't sure if it was a written rule, but it was kind of common sense. 

"Are you all right?" the volunteer asked. 

"Shouldn't you be worried about the kid that just ran off?" Clint asked. 

"I—"

"Never mind," Clint said, and went to go see if he could find Lewis. He couldn't have gotten far... unless he'd found an unlocked door and really taken off, but he wouldn't do that, would he? He wasn't that... stupid? Reckless?

He was just a damned kid. Did he really know about danger? Kids thought they were invincible, right? Wasn't that how it worked?

_Good thing I'm never going to be a father,_ Clint thought. _I would be a really fucking shitty one._

He tried to think like a kid, and realized that maybe that wasn't the best course of action, because Lewis wasn't much like other kids... or at least he didn't seem like he was. He tried to think about what Lewis had done in the past when he was upset, and went searching for small spaces that the little boy could have crammed himself into. 

A glance at his phone told him he only had ten minutes to find him before parents started showing up, and the last thing that he needed was every so-called adult in the place breathing down his neck because he'd screwed up and now a kid was missing. "Lewis!" he called, and his voice echoed in the empty hallways. "Lewis!" 

He listened for a response but didn't expect one. He kept walking.

He finally found him curled up in a tiny space between two banks of lockers. He didn't think about it, just reached in and pulled the boy out, getting his arms around him tightly before he could bolt again, holding him close in something that was part hug, part restraint. "You can't do that," he told him. "You can't just run off like that."

Lewis shoved at his chest, babbling something, and Clint finally released his grip enough to see if Lewis was trying to sign something. He kept one hand on his elbow in case he needed to grab him again. The little boy jabbed a finger into Clint's chest, then signed 'go' while shaking his head violently. 

His message was clear: You can't go. I don't want you to go. 

"I..." 

_I have to go._ That's what Clint had started to say, but it wasn't true, was it? There was no rule that said that he _had_ to stop volunteering just because his required hours were done, right? It wasn't like they could have _too many_ volunteers, right? Most of the time a tutor was working with two or three kids at a time. More tutors meant more possibilities for one-on-one attention, right? 

But time spent here was time that he wasn't spending working on the musical, and that was a problem, wasn't it? It could be a problem. But he wasn't the only one who had activities other than the musical to worry about, was he? Obviously he wasn't; look at Pepper, who was still part of every club you could imagine, or at least it seemed like she was. Look at Bobbi, with Tae Kwon Do. He'd managed to balance it for the past month... what was a few months more?

But the amount of time that he needed to dedicate to the musical was only going to increase, and he'd committed to that first, hadn't he? He had a job to do, and he would be letting down a lot more than one kid if he didn't do it. Not to mention the fact that Pepper would probably kill him. And when winter really hit and it started to snow, he would have driveways and sidewalks to shovel, which would eat into his free time, and he'd like to still get to see his girlfriend occasionally...

Lewis was staring at him. Just staring and staring through wide eyes that were ready to spill over tears at any moment. _You. Can't. Go,_ he signed, once, then again and again, faster and faster until Clint had to catch his hands to stop him. 

"Why?" Clint asked. "Why is it so important that I stay?" Maybe it was too much to ask of the kid, but what else was he supposed to do?

The boy managed to wriggle one hand free from Clint's, then the other. He reached out and took Clint's left hand, bending his index finger into a hook, and then linked his own crooked finger through it, so tight his knuckles turned white.

_Friend._ Clint's breath caught as his heart lurched, and his own eyes pricked with tears. Goddamnit all. He couldn't do this. He couldn't be this poor little boy's friend. He didn't need that kind of pressure. He didn't need anyone relying on him for anything; he would just let him down eventually, and probably sooner rather than later.

_You'll make new friends,_ he signed, forgetting to say the words out loud, or unable to push them around the lump in his throat that was so big it felt like it pushed on his inner ears so that they ached and he longed to pull his hearing aids out like it might relieve some of the pressure somehow. _Someone else will come help you._

Lewis shook his head. _No. Don't want. You._

_Why?_ He was stuck on the question no matter how many times Lewis answered. But none of the answers made sense to him, no matter how hard he tried. Didn't this kid know how often and how badly he'd fucked things up in his life? Didn't he know that Clint didn't know how to be a mentor or whatever Lewis was looking for? Didn't he know that even if he stayed for a few weeks, at the end of the year he would be gone anyway?

Unless he didn't go. Unless he stayed. Unless he didn't _have_ anywhere to go... but Natasha would go, wouldn't she? And he would follow, wouldn't he? Unless she didn't want him to.

_You can't go,_ Lewis insisted. _You can't go because I love you._

The words were a statement of fact, easy for him to express, an innocent childish admission of something that didn't mean anything huge to him. Or... maybe that wasn't true. Maybe it _was_ something huge, but it was a feeling that wasn't complicated. Not at that age. Not in this context. It carried weight, but it wasn't a burden. Not to him. Not yet, anyway. Love still came easily, was given freely... and what did he ask in return?

A couple of hours a week. A friend. 

And for all Clint knew, he was the only one who understood the kid at all. He was the only one who really tried. Which was fucked up, and he deserved better, and maybe somehow he could help him get better... if he stuck around.

_Okay,_ he signed. _Okay. I'll stay. But—_

There were no buts, because Lewis had him in a stranglehold of a hug, and Clint gave up on trying to reason with him or explain or whatever he had been thinking of doing and just hugged him back, holding him tightly like he suspected maybe he wasn't often held, because maybe his parents thought he was too big for it, or maybe he was too much trouble and they just didn't have the energy at the end of the day to deal with him. 

He didn't know for sure, but he wondered. 

He finally managed to pry Lewis's arms from around his neck and held his hands for a second before letting them go, cautious because he wasn't sure the boy wouldn't try and tackle him again. "We need to go back. I bet someone is here to pick you up by now."

Lewis shook his head, grabbing Clint's hand and clinging to it. _No._ he signed, and pointed to Clint. _You._

Me what?, Clint wondered. What did the boy mean? But he didn't get a chance to ask, because suddenly they were surrounded by other people in a tangle of legs and voices that seemed to come at them from all sides. Lewis's hand was yanked from his as the boy was jerked away. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing with my son?" 

"Sir, there's no need to use that kind of language," Steve said. 

"You don't get to tell me what kind of language I can and can't use," the man – Lewis's father – growled. "I can say whatever the f—"

"No, you can't," Steve said. "This is a school, and there are rules, and one of them is 'no profanity'. That's for everyone in the building, not just the students." He was probably half a foot shorter than Lewis's father, but he stared him down. 

"I still want to know what the he...ck he was doing with my son," he demanded. 

Clint stood up. "I told him that today was going to be my last day as his tutor," he explained. "He got upset and ran off. I followed him and we were talking."

"Talking? Alone, in a dark hallway?"

"It's where I found him, _sir_ ," Clint said, his tone going hard and sharp on the last word. "What was I supposed to do? Pick him up and drag him back to where everyone else was?"

Mr. Lewis (which wasn't actually his name, but Clint couldn't actually remember Lewis's last name off the top of his head so it worked for the time being) glowered at him, looking like he wanted to say something but had realized that maybe Clint was right after all. "Didn't I tell you to stay away from him?"

"Did you?" Clint asked. "I guess I must have forgot if you did."

"Clint has been working with Lewis all semester," Steve said. "I don't think Lewis would work half as well with anyone else."

"I don't think he would work at all with anyone else," Clint said. "No one else would even try to understand him."

Again, Mr. Lewis glowered. "Come on," he said to the little boy, "let's go." As if he had any choice. "I'm glad this was your last day. I don't need you teaching my kid how to be handicapped anymore."

Teaching... "What, you mean teaching him how to sign?" Clint asked. "You think that's teaching him how to be handicapped? Here I thought it was teaching him how to communicate so that he _wouldn't_ be handicapped. Weird."

"It's teaching him how to be lazy," the man said. "It's teaching him that instead of working hard to make himself normal, he can just find a way around it, and I won't stand for it."

"Wow," Clint said. "That's certainly one incredibly stupid way to look at it." He smiled, because he could see that the man wanted to hit him, but of course he couldn't. Not here. He could also sense that Steve might be getting ready to clamp a hand over his mouth, so he was going to have to be careful what else he said. He didn't want to create trouble for anyone else... at least not much. "But anyway, I changed my mind. Today isn't my last day. I'm coming back so I can keep helping him."

"Over my dead body," Mr. Lewis said. "You aren't coming anywhere near my son ever again."

"That's not really—"

But Steve got between them – actually physically put himself between them – to stop the argument. "Look, I think everyone is a little bit riled up. It's the holidays, everyone is stressed. We've got a couple weeks off. Everyone can just go home, enjoy their evening, enjoy the break, and when we come back we can sort it all out, okay?" 

"There's nothing to sort out," Mr. Lewis said, and began to pull Lewis away. The little boy went limp, the ultimate act of childish passive resistance. Unfortunately, his father was big enough to just pick him up and throw him over his shoulder, and he was none too gentle about it, either. Lewis screamed and pounded on his back, but to no avail.

Clint watched him go, wondering how much worse he had made things. Steve looked at him and sighed, running a hand over his hair. "That... could have been worse?" 

"Yeah," Clint said. "I could have hit him. It would have been awesome."

"Violence isn't the answer," Steve said.

"Except when it is," Clint countered. "You can't tell me that you weren't tempted to just pop him one."

"I wasn't tempted," Steve said. "I'm an artist. I can't risk my hands. Kicking him, on the other hand..." He smiled wryly. "But I didn't say that. You didn't hear it."

"Obviously," Clint said. "I'm deaf, aren't I?"

Steve grinned. "Did you mean that?" he asked. "About coming back?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "I don't know how I'm going to juggle it with the musical, but I meant it. He needs me. Especially now that I know just how much of a jackass his father is."

"Yeah, well," Steve said. "At least he's got one friend in the world." He nudged Clint in the ribs. "No pressure."

Clint forced a smile, but all he could think was, _Well you're in it now, Barton. Don't fuck it up._


	17. Chapter 17

"Merry Christmas," the elevator greeted them as they stepped in for the ride up to Tony's house. Penthouse? Whatever you wanted to call it; Clint wasn't sure. 

Bobbi shook her head. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that," she said. 

"What, the house having artificial intelligence?" Pepper asked, smiling at her. "Trust me, if you're around Tony long enough, you can get used to a lot of things. Really, I'll take the AI over Tony pretty much any day."

"If you really meant that, you wouldn't be here," Bobbi pointed out, and Pepper conceded the point with a crooked smile.

"Can this thing go any faster?" Jessica asked. "I'd really like to set the cake down before I manage to drop it."

"Do you want me to take it?" Clint offered. "I don't—"

Jessica snorted. "As if you're less likely to drop it than I am?" 

"I wouldn't say that in front of Tony," Pepper said. "Not the bit about Clint being clumsy. The part about making the elevator go faster. Genius he might be, but he sometimes get it into his head that the laws of physics are optional."

"They're not so much laws as... guidelines," Bobbi said.

"And here I thought you didn't know Tony well!" Pepper laughed.

The elevator doors opened, and they all waited for Jess to exit before stepping out to join those who had already assembled. A Christmas movie of some kind – Clint wasn't sure which but he assumed it was one of the funny ones... hopefully one of the actually funny ones and not one of the slapstick people make jackasses of themselves and pretend it's funny ones – was on the big screen, and the table was set for twelve. 

Clint went to the Christmas tree, the top of which nearly reached the vaulted ceiling (did they use ladders to decorate it?), and put his Secret Santa gift under it. Natasha followed suit, looking at the decorations as if they were far more interesting than they actually were. The tree was beautifully decorated – the whole house was – but none of it felt like it meant anything. The ornaments weren't family heirlooms or cockeyed craft projects that Tony had made in preschool. The whole thing looked like a display in a store, not someone's tree in their home.

Natasha slipped her hand into his and squeezed. They'd spent Christmas Eve decorating the tree at Mr. Fury's house, and because they didn't have ornaments from when they were children, Mr. Fury had gone out and gotten them a bunch of craft supplies and they'd made some. Even Jessica had stopped rolling her eyes after the first few minutes. It turned out that she was really good at making paper snowflakes. It also turned out that no matter how many times Carol showed him how to fold the paper and cut, Clint was incapable of making a chain of little people that all stayed connected. The best he could manage was a series of pairs. Maybe it was symbolic.

The elevator door opened, and Sam came bursting in, followed by Steve and Peggy. "I hope you don't mind," Steve said to no one in particularly, but presumably he was speaking primarily to Tony, since it was his house. 

"Mind what?" Tony asked.

"That I brought Peggy along."

"The more the merrier, as the saying goes," Tony said, and went back to putting together... whatever he was putting together. "We'll just need to set another place at the table."

"Uh-oh," Sam said. "Thirteen people at the dinner table."

"And not a single one of us looks a thing like Jesus," Jessica said acidly. "So shove it."

"What's wrong with thirteen people at the dinner table?" Clint asked.

"Maybe because it looks strange of have different numbers of people on each side?" Natasha suggested with a shrug.

"There were thirteen people at the table at the last supper," Bobbi said. "Now the superstition is that if there are thirteen people at the dinner table, the first person to get up will die."

"Ah," Natasha said, like suddenly it made sense.

"What last supper?" Clint asked, because it still didn't.

Bobbi looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Carnies," he said.

"Right. The last supper was the meal that Jesus had with his disciples before he got betrayed by Judas and killed."

"Ah," Clint said. That explained why Sam had brought it up, he guessed, and why Jessica was so annoyed by it. He was an atheist mostly because he'd never been brought up to believe in any kind of God. He wasn't sure that she actually was, however much she hated any mention of anything religious. Did you qualify as an atheist if you didn't so much not believe in God as hate his heavenly guts?

Tony got up and disappeared, coming back a few minutes later and hanging up another stocking along the mantel. There were twelve there already, looking like they might burst at any second. "There," he said. "Problem solved."

"If we'd thought of it, we would have included your name in the Secret Santa," Bruce said to Peggy. "We should have invited you in the first place. Kind of rude of us not to." He smiled apologetically.

"That's all right," she said. "It was kind of a last minute thing that I ended up coming, to be honest. I thought I was going to have to watch Sharon, and I didn't figure everyone would want her underfoot."

"Everyone would have understood," Bruce said. "Things come up. We're glad you're here, anyway. If you're hungry, there are some snacks set out... kind of everywhere. Dinner won't be for a few hours, so help yourself. Drinks are in the kitchen. Bar is off-limits."

"Well, considering none of us is old enough to drink anyway," Steve said, "that makes sense."

It hadn't stopped them before, Clint thought, but he didn't say that. He wondered if Bruce was just saying that, or if it really was off-limits... if Tony had gotten in trouble for something. Or maybe someone else had noticed that fact that Carol and alcohol were not only a bad combination but also becoming increasingly problematic and decided to remove the temptation. As far as Clint knew, she hadn't been drunk since Jessica's birthday, but he wasn't exactly around her all of the time, so maybe she was just getting better at hiding it.

It took a little while for everyone to trickle in, but once the whole group was assembled, Tony announced that it was time for stockings, and encouraged everyone to find theirs hanging over the fire. It turned out that each had a name embroidered on it (except Peggy's) and that someone (presumably Tony, but Clint suspected he'd had some help from Bruce and also probably Pepper) had made sure that each one contained a few little personal touches along with the general candy. 

"Wow," Bobbi said. "Thank you!" She'd just pulled a little keychain that was a little silhouette of someone doing martial arts. Everyone showed off their trinkets and specially chosen treats, guarding them closely when someone else professed their own love for whatever it was that they had, although it was all in good fun. 

"Presents before or after dinner?" Tony asked. 

"After dinner," Steve said decisively. "Before dessert. Gives us a little time to digest."

By the time they actually got the holiday meal, everyone was pretty buzzed with sugar, but no one appeared to have spoiled their appetites. (Clint wasn't sure that it was possible for a teenager to actually spoil their appetite, no matter what parents said. He knew that he was hungry pretty much all the time, and although people liked to believe that girls were somehow not susceptible to normal bodily urges, his experience spending so much time with Natasha, Jessica and Carol had taught him that they were making trips to the kitchen just as often, and frequently eating as much as he was.)

"Do you have a cook, or was this catered?" Bobbi asked. "I'm assuming that you didn't make it yourself."

"I'm not allowed in the kitchen," Tony said, grinning. "They say that the appliances are already high efficiency, and there is no need for me to make them any more efficient than they already are. We do have a cook, but for things like this, we have it catered. Some people – cough Jessica cough – bring things to contribute, too."

"It's all delicious," Bobbi said. "Thank you for doing all of this for us."

Tony shrugged, seeming embarrassed by the attention. But of course Bobbi didn't know him that well, didn't know that he had gatherings like this because he didn't actually have any "real" family gatherings to attend, that his father was basically never around and he'd been left to his own devices for the better part of his life. 

Or maybe she knew all of that and just wanted to be polite. 

They ate until even Thor proclaimed that he was too full to eat another bite (and then ate another bite...) but finally retired to the living room, lounging in chairs and on sofas, a few people sprawling with pillows on the floor, loosely arranged with the tree as a sort of centerpiece for the cozy little picture that they made.

"All right, who's up first?" Tony asked. When no one spoke up, he said, "All right, we'll let the Santa drone decide."

"The what?" Carol asked.

"The Santa drone. It's a little project I've been working on since I got home from school. I didn't want my skills to get rusty while I was away."

"It's been, like, a day," she pointed out.

"Also, I was bored," Tony said.

"Again, it's been a day."

"I get bored easily."

Carol rolled her eyes, but didn't try to argue with him again. She sat back in her seat, extending her arm so that it stretched across the back of the couch begin Jessica, but she didn't touch her. Maybe things still weren't quite right between them, Clint realized. He couldn't imagine staying pissed off at Natasha for that long, but then Natasha had never forgotten his birthday due to being in a drunken stupor.

Tony got up and retrieved what appeared to be a small helicopter with a basket dangling underneath it. He grabbed a package and flew it over to Pepper, where it was deposited into her lap. The drone hovered above her as if it was waiting for some kind of reward or something.

"You made that in a day?" Thor asked, coughing as he nearly choked on the cookie he'd been eating. 

"A day and a half," Tony said. "Sleep is for the weak."

"And those who want to maintain their sanity," Bobbi muttered, "but I guess it's too late for that." 

Clint suppressed a laugh, and he saw Natasha smirking. 

"I'm going to sell the technology to Amazon or something," Tony said. "Well, not sell it to them, but sell them the use of it."

"Weren't they already talking about that?" Steve asked. "I thought I read something."

"Mine's better," Tony said. "Go on, Pepper. Open it."

Pepper peeled away the wrapping carefully, and opened the box inside. It contained all sorts of office and organizational supplies, including a name plate for a desk. She held it up, looking slightly puzzled.

"For when you're CEO," Carol said. "The rest of it ought to be enough to get you through at least your first semester of college."

"Thank you," Pepper said, shaking her head slightly but smiling. 

"I know, practical is boring, but you don't really strike me as the whimsical tchotchke type."

"No," Pepper said. "It's great."

Tony flew the drone back over to the tree and loaded up another gift, this time flying it to Carol, who lifted a small package from the basket. Inside was a book called _4000 Years of Uppity Women_. Carol grinned and held it up. "Maybe a hundred years from now I'll be in it," she said. "Thanks, Nat."

Natasha shrugged as if to say it was nothing. Tony had apparently decided that the giver of the previous gift would be the next recipient, so the drone made its way to her next. It was an envelope, and in it was a gift card.

"I'm sorry," Thor said, looking embarrassed. "I had no idea, and I ran out of time, and I figured rather than pick something out that was wrong, I would let you pick for yourself. But my roommate's girlfriend said that the stuff there is really nice, and she couldn't imagine anyone _not_ being able to find something that they like there, so... at least it's not something really, _really_ generic?"

The card was for a place called Lush. Clint thought he remembered seeing it in the mall one time. "Thank you," Natasha said. "It's a good choice." She tucked it carefully back into the card.

While everyone else was distracted watching the drone, Clint signed, _Is it really good?_

_It's the store with the soaps and the fizzy bath things I took you to one time and you started touching everything and ended up covered in glitter,_ she responded, the corner of her mouth curling up.

Clint laughed. _I remember now! I think there's still glitter stuck to the hoodie I was wearing that day._

_It wouldn't surprise me._

"I didn't really know either," Sam admitted when Thor opened his gift to find that he had also received a gift card. "But I knew that you were into sports, and I figured that I couldn't really go wrong with a sporting goods place."

Thor grinned. "It's great. I actually needed to get a few things before going back to school, so this is perfect."

Sam seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. He didn't know Thor well enough yet to know that it really wouldn't have mattered what he'd gotten him, Thor would have been thrilled. Clint watched the drone deliver a small package to Sam, looking away but glancing at his face out of the corner of his eye as he opened it.

"Oh, hey!" Sam said. "This is awesome! I was actually looking at this one the other day, but got a different one, which turned out to actually kind of suck, so thanks!" He brandished the book of monologues that Clint had picked out like it was a trophy.

"You're welcome," Clint said, glad that he hadn't picked out one that Sam already had or something. He'd almost taken the easy way out and gotten him a gift card, not wanting to risk getting it wrong, but he'd decided to take a chance and for once it had paid off. 

The drone to him next, and Clint reached out and patted it like it was a puppy or something that had successfully retrieved the newspaper, which got a laugh from several people. The package was heavy, and he recognized Tony's scrawl on the tag. It made him nervous as he opened it, afraid that whatever was inside would suddenly come to life or something.

It didn't. Not exactly. It was a tablet with a case that doubled as a keyboard. "I'll show you all the things I added to it after," Tony said. "It's got a recorder built in that not only records but translates them into text in real time, so when you're in lectures or whatever at school, you'll basically have your own closed captioning device. That's probably the most useful, but definitely not the most fun."

"Tony, there's no way that this was under the limit we set for how much we were allowed to spend," Clint said. "I can't—"

"I will show you receipts if you want," Tony said. "I built it myself, and a lot of the parts I already had laying around, so it didn't actually cost me that much at all to do it. And anyway, it was my final project for one of my classes – I got a perfect grade, for the record – so really, it was something I was building anyway."

"Thank you," Clint said, clenching his hands around it so that no one would be able to see that they were shaking. "I... thank you."

"Of course," Tony said. "What are friends for?" And then he reached to load the drone again and realized that he was next. "Ooh!" He tore into the gift, his eyes lighting up. "Ooh, more mad scientist cooking!" he said. "They'll _have_ to let me in the kitchen now!"

"Are you _sure_ that was a good idea?" Carol asked Jessica. 

"Well Bruce didn't blow anything up when I gave something like it to him last year," Jessica said defensively. "I trust that he'll keep Tony from leveling Boston."

"No pressure," Bruce said with a laugh. 

Jessica shrugged. "You should have just let me keep myself," she said. When she'd drawn her own name at Thanksgiving, they'd made her put it back, despite her argument that she knew she would get herself exactly what she wanted.

"Where's the fun in that?" Steve asked. "Yours is from me."

Jessica opened it, and her eyes went wide. "This is... wow."

"That's terrifying," Natasha said, looking over. "You gave her knives."

"I thought they might be useful," Steve said. "Every chef needs a good set of knives."

"Thank you," Jessica said.

"You're welcome," Steve replied. "I'm sure you'll put them to good use."

Steve's gift from Loki was art supplies, as well as a book on art therapy, which of course he loved. Loki's gift was from Bobbi, and was a big book of showtunes that were aimed at his voice range. "I thought they would be useful for your auditions," she said. "Although you've probably got everything prepared, if you haven't auditioned already."

"Getting into college is only the beginning," Loki said. "It's great."

Bobbi smiled, and opened her gift, which was from Bruce. She looked down at it in its box, then lifted it out and held it up for everyone to see... but of course they'd all seen it because they'd all contributed. It was a quilt, and they'd each designed a block for it with something that made them think of Bobbi, or something that might make Bobbi think of them, or (ideally) both. "You made this?"

"I had help," Bruce said. "Um, a lot of help. Like... Natasha actually did most of the work? But it was my idea."

"You got this all together in less than a month?"

"Uh... sort of," Bruce said. "I actually had the idea for it as a graduation present, and I'd talked to people about it, but... the timeline kind of got compressed when I got your name for the Secret Santa, because I figured... well, mostly I couldn't come up with another idea half as good. But... I just remembered you complaining about how the hospital was so impersonal and how it was nice it was to have things around that reminded you of home, and when you're at school, it can kind of feel the same way so... now you can take us with you, wherever you end up."

Bobbi sniffed. "Thank you. All of you."

"Well that's a tough act to follow," Pepper said. "But I hope that you like yours, Bruce." She'd given him a year's subscription to some magazine that was apparently very popular with scientists. Clint didn't quite catch the name. 

"And now dessert!" Tony announced. "Should I have Santa bring it?"

"You are not having a robot serve my cake!" Jessica said. "And don't argue with me. I have knives." The smile on her face said she wouldn't hesitate to use them. (Clint was pretty sure it was an act, but pretty sure wasn't enough to make him want to argue on behalf of Tony's flying robot."

"Right," Tony said. "Santa and I will just be over here then."

"Good plan," Jessica said, and went to the kitchen to start cutting the cake into slices. In the end, though, she relented, and each plate was delivered to its recipient with the help of a holiday drone. Although there was obviously no scientific evidence to back it up, Clint was pretty damn sure it tasted better that way.


	18. Chapter 18

New Year's Eve, and everyone was back at Tony's house for another party. This time, though, it wasn't just them. This time the place was packed with bodies, sitting and standing and lounging and dancing and sprawling and generally occupying every bit of space that one might want to move through. 

"Does Tony _know_ all of these people?" Bobbi asked, having to shout over the throb of the music. 

"Probably not," Natasha replied while Clint was still trying to figure out if he'd heard Bobbi right. It felt like the walls were closing in on him, and they were made of noise. "He invites friends, friends invite friends..." She shrugged. "Is how it goes."

Bobbi nodded. "I guess I just didn't expect there to be quite this many people."

"Is not like Christmas or Thanksgiving," Natasha said, "where is just us. This is party - _real_ party – and who is not going to come to party at Stark house if they are invited?"

"I guess you have a point," Bobbi said. "Does it get... crazy?"

"Define 'crazy'," Clint finally chimed in.

"Like... people ending up in the hospital or pregnant or..."

"I don't know about the second one, but I don't think anyone has ended up in the hospital in the past two years. It's an open bar and no one's carding, really, but I think they're pretty good about cutting people off when they think they've had too much."

"That's good, at least," Bobbi said. "Nothing brings down a party faster than an ambulance arriving. EMTs are such buzzkills." She flashed a smile, but it was pretty clear that she was serious.

"Are you staying?" Natasha asked. 

"Overnight?" Bobbi asked. "Yeah, I guess so. I mean, you guys are kind of my ride so it's pretty much whatever you do, I do."

"After midnight people start going home... I don't know what time the last person left last year, but when we got up in the morning, it was just the group still around."

"We already had gone to bed," Natasha said, and it was hard to tell in the shifting lights whether her cheeks flushed or Clint was imagining it, or maybe it was just that a pink light hit them just then.

"There's enough places to sleep?" Bobbi looked around. "It doesn't seem..."

"You've never been given the whole tour, have you?" Clint asked. "This place is a lot bigger than you might think, just looking at the main areas... which are big enough. But yeah, there's places for everyone to sleep. Most people end up sharing, but... for most people that's not a problem. If you wanted a room to yourself, I'm sure you could find one."

"Right," Bobbi said, and this time _she_ was the one who might have been blushing... but Clint was probably just imagining that, because he didn't think he'd _ever_ seen Bobbi blush. She was so straightforward and matter-of-fact about everything; what would she ever be embarrassed about.

"I'm going to go find something to drink," Bobbi said. "Like water."

"We'll be around," Clint said. "Have fun." He figured that she would find someone to talk to or hang out with among the people here; she was good at that kind of thing, and anyway, there was a good chance that at least _some_ of the people here were Bruce and Tony's friends from college, who would be nerds like them, and therefore nerds like Bobbi.

 _Would it be rude if I turned off my hearing aids?_ , he asked Natasha, switching to sign as soon as they were alone... or as alone as one could be in a room that also contained at least a hundred people, and was anyone paying attention to fire codes? Did Tony even know what fire codes were, or that they applied to him?

 _Too loud?,_ Natasha asked, but it wasn't really a question. _Go ahead. I'll tell you if I hear anyone calling your name._

 _You probably don't have to worry about that,_ Clint said, and watched as a frown creased Natasha's forehead. _I mean because everyone who really knows me knows that in this kind of crowd calling my name is probably futile,_ he added, even though that wasn't really what he'd meant at all. _They would come up and tap my shoulder or something._

 _I'll tell you anyway,_ Natasha said.

 _You don't have to stay with me all night,_ Clint said. _You don't have to feel obligated. I don't want to ruin your fun._

The look she gave him went from confused to scathing in an instant, and she looked like she was going to say something, her mouth slightly open, her hands up between them, and then she just let them drop and her mouth snapped shut, and she turned and walked away from him.

He didn't know if he was supposed to follow. He stood there, frozen, until someone jostled into him, sloshing beer on his shirt, and he stumbled out of the way, finding a quiet corner where he wouldn't be in anyone's way, and where maybe he would actually be able to hear himself think... not that that was necessarily a good idea, considering that his thoughts had been chasing themselves in circles all week. No, not all week. All month. All year. And they always came to the same inevitable conclusion: Soon this would all be over, and he would have nothing left.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there. Probably minutes rather than hours, although occasionally someone would come over to talk to him, and he would switch his hearing aids back on. The conversations were short, though, because it was hard for him to hear so he had to keep asking them to repeat themselves, and finally most people just got frustrated and gave up and walked away. He watched the crowd, searching without really being conscious of it, for the flash of red hair. 

A hand was thrust in his face, and when he looked up it was into Natasha's face, not smiling, a challenge in her eyes. He looked at her questioningly, but she wasn't answering questions, she was asking one, and he was pretty sure 'no' was the wrong answer. So he took her hand and let himself be led, his body joining those who were moving with and against each other to music that he couldn't hear.

He danced with her, badly, but he danced, feeling the beat through the floor and through collective movement of those around him. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, and it wasn't bad. This wasn't bad, even if he felt awkward as hell. Alcohol might have made it easier... almost certainly would have made it easier, but he hadn't bothered to get up to get himself a drink.

They found themselves near Carol and Jess, and Clint answered their smiles (broad and brilliant in Carol's case, tight-lipped and tense in Jessica's) with his own. He saw that Carol was holding a cup, and something must have changed in his expression, because she leaned in to him and said, "Just coke. No rum."

He nodded, not sure whether to believe her, until Jessica grabbed her and pulled her into a kiss, and not a chaste one, and when it brought Carol looked stunned and Jessica was smirking. "Just coke," she agreed, and after that it seemed that something in her eased, because she moved more freely and fluidly, and at least for now, whatever hard feelings she might still be harboring about what had happened on her birthday seemed to evaporate, and Jess and Carol were Jess-and-Carol again, at least for the night.

They danced until Clint was too thirsty to stand it any longer. _Water?_ , he asked Natasha. 

She nodded, and they left the dance floor, finding the cooler that was filled with bottles of water. Clint half-emptied his in a few swallows. He looked out over the crowd, taking it all in, wondering if this would be the last time. Maybe not, since it was a holiday. There would always be parties at the Stark place on holidays; Tony wouldn't have it any other way... right? 

He draped his arm around Natasha's shoulder, and she slid hers around his waist, and for a minute it was easy, and for the rest of the night it was easy, and when they found a room shortly after they'd toasted the new year, that was easy too, because Clint, at least, had stopped thinking about the future and was just thinking about the moment. 

But as soon as Natasha's breathing evened out, it all came crashing back, and he held her close so he could feel the rise and fall of her back against his chest, but it didn't soothe the ache there. It didn't make it easier to sleep like it once had, and he had to be careful how tight he held her because he didn't want to wake her and have to try to explain why he couldn't sleep... if she even asked. 

He must have slept, because he woke up, but it didn't feel like it had been for long, and although he couldn't remember any details, he was pretty sure any dreams he'd had were bad ones. He got out of bed, careful not to disturb Natasha, tucking the covers around her and pressing a kiss to her temple. 

In the kitchen he made coffee, swearing under his breath at the needlessly complicated machine until the house AI murmured (couldn't computers murmur?) the instructions, calm and unobtrusive and rather eerily soothing.

He sat down at the table, where paper and pens had been set out by some conscientious person, and he tried to write... but every time he set the pen to paper, his thoughts dried up, leaving only one behind: It's over. Maybe not today, maybe not now, but soon. It's over, and it's your fault.

He was startled when someone appeared at his side, having not bothered to put in his hearing aids yet. Why should he, when no one else was up? Except apparently that was no longer the case, so he put them in his ears, proactively wincing before he realized that all was quiet and there was no onslaught of sound. 

"Morning," he mumbled.

"Good morning," Bobbi answered, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. "Trying to write your new year's letter?" He'd almost forgotten that she'd been there the year before to know about the tradition, although it had come up again at Christmas, when they'd discussed whether they would open their letters from the previous year before or after writing their new ones. They'd all decided on after, with some people not sure they wanted to open the ones from the previous year at all.

"Yeah," Clint said. "Obviously I haven't gotten far."

"It seems like it should be easy," Bobbi said. "I mean, haven't we all had to think about what we wanted this year for... pretty much since we started high school? This is what it all comes down to, and we're deciding our futures now. College, career... Obviously people will change their minds, but this is where it starts."

"I know," Clint said.

Bobbi looked at him, concern in her blue eyes, and then something in her expression shifted and she leaned back. "You don't," she said. "You don't know. And that's what's been wrong with you. Or not _wrong_ with you, but that's what's been eating at you. You don't know, and everyone else does, or seems like they do, and you don't."

Clint opened his mouth, closed it, nodded. He squirmed as she looked at him, looked _through_ him, and put her finger on what he'd been unable to say, unable to express, ever since it had hit him that this was all going to end.

"That sucks," Bobbi said. "But you'll figure it out."

"What if I don't?" Clint asked. "What if I don't figure it out? Or what if what I decide..." But he couldn't say the words that had been so loud in his head for so long they'd become a sort of second heartbeat, drumming a counter-rhythm to the one that had driven him for so long.

"What if what you decide what?" Bobbi asked. 

He swallowed hard. "What if what I decide's not good enough?" 

"Not good enough? How can what you decide you want to do with the rest of your life be 'not good enough' if it's what you want to do?"

"I mean... not good enough for... to..."

Bobbi's eyebrows arched. "For...? To...?"

"Natasha," he finally managed to say. "She's going to realize that I'm not... I'm nothing, no one, just... not good enough. And then she's going to leave me and I'm going to be... alone."

Bobbi leaned back, then forward again. "Have you talked to her about it?" she asked. "How you feel?"

He shook his head.

"Have you talked to her about the future at all?" 

He shook his head again.

Bobbi sighed. "So... you think if you make some decision about what you want to do with your life, and it's not somehow 'good enough', she's just going to give up on you?"

"Pretty much."

"Pretty much," she echoed.

"She... deserves better," Clint said. "She can do better than me. And sometimes I think... sometimes I think I should just let her go, so that she can find someone who..." The words caught, and he took a gulp of coffee, scalding his mouth.

There was a pause, and then Bobbi looked him in the eye again, with the sort of look that he wasn't used to from anyone but Natasha. "Do you love her?" she asked, but before he could answer, she went on. "Do you love her like an aerobic organism loves air? Do you want to be the ones who beat the odds, the one in a thousand, million, billion who stays with their high school sweetheart? Do you want to be a hundred years old, sitting on your porch on Mars with your great-great-grandkids, telling them, 'Back in my day, before we had jet packs, I met your great-great-grandmother when she was just fifteen and we fell in love and we've been together ever since'? Then you _need to talk to her_."

There didn't seem to be any point in telling Bobbi that they weren't ever going to have kids. They hadn't really talked about that, either, but it felt like something that had always just been understood between them, like so many things had. It had only been recently that that understanding had started to fray around the edges.

But the analogies, the porch on Mars... he was almost smiling, until Bobbi shattered the image.

"You're right, though. She does deserve better." She leaned closer, enunciating clearly so that there was no way that he could miss a single word. "She deserves someone who trusts her enough to know her own heart, and who won't try to make decisions for her based on what they think she thinks or feels."

He started to object, but Bobbi held up a hand. "So I'm going to ask you again, and you don't have to answer me, but at least be honest with yourself. Do you love her? It's a simple question: yes or no, and there is no 'yes, but.' Do you love her? Are you in love with her? Do you want to try to build a future with her? Then forget all of this bullshit about not being good enough and just be the best you can, and let _her_ decide if it's good enough."

Clint took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice strangled. He got up, leaving the pen and paper and coffee behind, and went back to the room where he'd left Natasha. 

She was just stirring, and she opened her eyes as he crawled back into bed with her, so he leaned in and kissed her softly. 

_Happy New Year,_ she signed.

 _I hope so,_ he signed back.

_It will be._

He hesitated. _We need to talk._

_I know._

_You know?_

_I was waiting for you to be ready._

_I'm not ready,_ Clint said. _I'm scared._

 _I know. So am I._ She reached out to stroke the hair at his temple.

_I love you._

_I know. Sometimes that's the only thing I know. That and that I love you too._

_I know._ And he did. He did know, and everything else was just his own stupid shit.

There was more to be said, sooner rather than later, but for the moment he'd said as much as he could manage, and it was hard to talk anyway when his hands and lips were otherwise occupied... but then what they said without words was almost as... and sometimes more... important as what they said with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I hope everyone had a good holiday season (or at least got through it with most of their sanity intact). Keep an eye out on Wednesday, when I will be posting the letters that the kids wrote to themselves for New Year's last year, which yes, I wrote, and which I haven't looked at since I wrote them. I figured some of you might be curious.


	19. Chapter 19

They'd eaten breakfast in silence, crunching through bowls of cereal because they didn't feel like making anything more complicated. Jessica was still in bed (with or without Carol, they weren't sure and it was none of their business anyway) and Mr. Fury was holed up somewhere or had gone out. Natasha rinsed the bowls and put them in the dishwasher, then stood staring out the window above the sink.

Clint came up behind her, touching her arm gently before wrapping his arms around her. She leaned back against his chest, her hair tickling against the side of his neck. She lifted her hands to sign, and he watched her reflecting in the window to see what she was saying. _Do you want to go back upstairs?_

He nodded, but didn't let her go for another moment, just pressing his face into her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. She finally shifted away to turn and face him, looking up at him with eyes that he had gotten lost in so many times he'd lost count. They were uncertain now, and he wondered if his were the same.

They knew what needed to happen. They knew it needed to happen soon. They knew that they were going back to school in less than 48 hours and once they went back their lives would be taken over by homework and the musical and everything else.

"Upstairs," Natasha said, and took his hand to lead him up. He stepped past her into her room and watched as she closed the door and locked it. The likelihood of anyone just barging in was pretty much non-existent, but he'd noticed she had a tendency to lock doors any time she was feeling even a little bit insecure. It wasn't really that surprising when he thought about it.

She sat on the bed, and he sat down facing her, because it was easiest to talk that way, even though he would have preferred to be able to touch her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. _I'm still not ready to talk,_ he signed.

_Will you ever be?_ , Natasha asked.

Clint shook his head with a wry smile. _No. So I guess it's 'ready or not, here we go.'_

_I guess it is,_ she agreed, but then neither of them said anything.

A minute ticked by, then another. _I don't know where to start,_ Clint said finally.

_Start with the most important thing,_ Natasha said. 

_Why do I have to be the one to start?_ , Clint asked.

_Start with the thing that you need to say more than anything else,_ Natasha prompted, ignoring his whining. _Start with the thing that you've been fighting not to say for days, or weeks, or however long it's been._

Clint looked at her, his breath caught in his throat, his hands suspended in mid-air. He forced the air out as he signed, _Please don't leave me._

Natasha closed her eyes, and Clint's heart clenched, because without being able to see her eyes, all communication was cut off, and he had to assume the worst... except she'd said she loved him. She said sometimes the only thing she knew was that he loved her, and she loved him. That couldn't have changed since Thursday morning... could it?

But loving a person didn't necessarily mean you wanted to or would stay with them. 

She finally opened them again after what seemed like a very long time but was probably no more than a second or two. _Why would I leave you?_

_Because I'm a disaster. I don't know what I'm doing with my life, and whatever it ends up being... you're amazing. You're going to do great things. I'm... going to mow lawns for a living or something. You're going to go to college and meet people and realize that—_

Her left hand smacked into her left palm like a knife chopping down. _Stop._

He stopped.

_You're a disaster. So what? Do you think that I'm not?_

_You're not. You're—_

Natasha shook her head, reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. _Don't tell me I'm amazing. Don't tell me that I've been through hell and I've come out on top and now the world is my... is mine to take. I've heard all of that, and maybe it's true, and maybe it's not. Do you think I feel like the world is mine? Do you think I know what I'm doing any more than you do?_

Clint grimaced. _I... kind of assumed that you did, yeah._

_I don't,_ Natasha told him. _Maybe in some ways, about some things, but hell, Clint, I don't even know if I'm going to be allowed to stay in this country! I don't know that tomorrow they're not going to decide that it's time for me to go back._

_They can't do that,_ Clint said, more because he didn't want it to be true than because he didn't believe it.

_They can,_ Natasha assured him, her expression bitter.

_I won't let them,_ Clint insisted.

_You're going to hide me from the United States government?_

_If I have to._

Natasha sighed. Even if he hadn't had his hearing aids in to hear the deep exhalation of breath, a sound like she'd been punctured and was deflating, he would have seen it. _I don't know that you could. I know that you would try. The point is, things aren't so very certain from where I stand, either. But I have to assume that I will be allowed to stay, and plan my future accordingly. I have to hope._

_I hope too,_ Clint said.

_What do you hope for? What do you want?_ , she asked, her eyes boring into him.

_I want to be with you._

_That's all?_

_That's all,_ Clint said. 

Natasha shook her head. _That can't be all,_ she told him, not to be cruel but because it was true. _I can be **part** of your future – I **want** to be part of your future – but I can't be the whole of it. You need a plan. You need something that will be yours, something that you want for you. I can't be everything for you._

_You have been,_ Clint said. _Since I met you, you've been at the center of everything._

_The center,_ Natasha said. _And you've been the center of everything for me. But that's not **everything**. You're at the center, but I also have Jessica and Mr. Fury. I also have the musical, and working at the summer camp, and everything I went through with the trial. Do you see?_

Clint nodded slowly. _I have the Sullivans, and everything that happened with Devon. I have the musical, too. I have mowing lawns and clearing driveways. I have the summer camp, and tutoring..._

_See?_ , Natasha said. _So what have you learned from that?_

_I've learned that being a foster parent isn't easy,_ Clint said. _I've learned that it's frustrating and hard and sometimes, no matter how good you are at it, no matter how good your intentions are, sometimes it doesn't work out and sometimes you end up with your heart broken._

Natasha nodded. _What else?_

_I've learned that some kids really should never be allowed near power tools._ He smiled crookedly, and was rewarded with an answering smile. _I've also learned more about how to build things, and how to stay organized and make a schedule and this year even mostly stick to it. I've learned how to be a stage manager, and how to get other people to do the stuff that I don't know how to, or that I can't because..._ He gestured toward one of his ears.

_You've learned sign language,_ Natasha said. _We taught ourselves an entire language in less than two years, without really having a teacher. That's pretty big._

He hadn't even thought of that. It _was_ big. It was actually kind of huge. But it had been out of necessity, a way to communicate with Natasha, who was already so important to him even though he'd only known her for a few weeks, when other languages were letting them down. _And then I tried to teach it to Lewis,_ he said. _So that maybe he stood a chance of having someone understand him so he wouldn't be so frustrated all the time._

_And it worked,_ Natasha said. _By the end of the summer, he was a much happier kid than he started out, I think._

_I don't know if that was the signing or just the fact that someone was paying attention to him,_ Clint said. _I don't think he gets a lot of attention otherwise. At least not positive attention. I've met his father at tutoring, and he..._ He shook his head, his hands balling into fists at the thought of the man and his accusations and the way he treated Lewis, the fear in the little boy's eyes when he looked at his father. He knew that look, that feeling, all too well, and he wasn't going to let that be the end of that little boy's story.

_You told me,_ Natasha said. _So... he's not the only one in the world like him._

_What do you mean?_ , Clint asked, dragging his mind back to the conversation at hand.

_I mean he's not the only kid in the world who struggles to communicate, or who is dealing with a difficult situation at home._

_I know,_ Clint said. If the last few years had taught him nothing else, it was that. Look at Thor, Carol, Bobbi, Tony, Steve, Pepper... On the surface, you would look at them and see that they were perfectly happy, normal, well-adjusted kids, when sometimes nothing could be farther from the truth. They just hid it well.

_You obviously want to help Lewis,_ Natasha continued. _Why stop there?_

Clint shook his head. _How would I do that? Just because I **want** to help doesn't mean I know **how**._

_You don't have to know how,_ Natasha said. _That's the point. You can learn._

_How?_ , Clint asked. _Where?_

_School,_ Natasha replied, rolling her eyes. _College._

_I'm not going to college,_ Clint said.

Natasha stopped with her hands mid-air, and her expression turned so flat and blank Clint actually recoiled slightly. He raised his own hands to say something, but no words came to mind. _Why?_ , she finally demanded. _Why are you not going to college?_

_Because I'm not that good at school,_ Clint said. _My grades aren't that great. Why would I do any better in college?_

_Because you would be studying something that you actually wanted to learn,_ Natasha said. _At least more than you do in high school. Because it wouldn't just be grinding through every day to get to the end. You go to class and when you're done with class you go home. In college you spend less time in class in a week than we do in two days of high school, generally. There's more work you have to do at home, but it's different._

_I can't afford it,_ Clint said. _The money I make, except the summer money, basically just goes into my gas tank, and the summer money... it's not that much._

_Financial aid,_ Natasha said. _Scholarships._

Clint didn't argue with her, but he doubted that would do him any good. How would it help him to go to school and come out the other end owing more money than he was ever likely to make? Assuming he managed to finish at all. _I'm not smart enough for college,_ he finally said, which was really his real fear. _I'm not Tony or Bruce or—_

_So what?_ , Natasha snapped. _You don't need to be! You're not going to be an engineer or a scientist. You're a different kind of smart. Do you think either of them knows as much about people as you do? Do you think either of them could have done with Lewis what you did in a single summer?_ She paused, then said, _Do you think either of them could have done what you have for me?_

_I didn't—_ , Clint began, but she didn't let him finish.

_You did. You saved my life, not just once. You gave me a shoulder to lean on when I needed it, a distraction from everything going on when I needed it. You gave me a language that I could actually make myself understood in, and you actually **wanted** to understand. You stayed up nights texting with me when I was too scared to sleep. You helped me find the strength to finally tell someone and get out. You've kept the nightmares at bay more nights than I can count now. You... No one else did any of that, Clint. It was all only you._

_You were – are – my friend,_ Clint said. _My **best** friend. How could I not do those things? And I loved - **love** \- you. I'm **in love** with you. I couldn't just sit back and watch you suffer. I couldn't just let you go._

_See?_ , she said. _No, you don't see. Of course you don't see._ She looked away for a moment, blinking hard. When she looked back, he could see that her eyes were damp with unshed tears. _After everything that happened, I felt... dirty. Used. Broken. I felt like there was no way in the world that anyone would ever be able to look at me and see anything but that. There was no way that anyone would ever love me, or want me... not in a way that I wanted to be wanted. I wasn't even sure that I could ever... that it wouldn't just... hurt. That I could heal from any of it. You taught me different. You taught me that I was capable of, and worthy of, love. That I was not tainted. That my body was still my own, and I could take control of it back, and that... that if I wanted... if I felt desire... that that was okay, and that if I set limits they would be respected and that... you taught me that I was worth something._

_Not something,_ Clint said, the signs soft and small. _**Everything.**_

_No one else could have done that,_ Natasha said. _Don't underestimate what you are capable of, Clint Barton._

They were quite for a minute, before Clint finally asked, _What if I don't **want** to go to college?_ , he asked.

_Then you don't have to,_ Natasha said. _If you really think about it and you decide that it's not the right plan for you, then you don't have to go. But I don't think you've really thought about it, and I think that you need to._ She reached out, touched his hand, made sure that he was looking at her, that she had his full attention. _You never gave up on me. Don't give up on yourself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who missed it, I posted a bit of a bonus in the middle of the week - the letters that the kids wrote to themselves at the beginning of 2014. If you're interested, they can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3135083).


	20. Chapter 20

Clint poked his head into Mr. Coulson's office. He was going to be late for rehearsal, but this was... if not more important, equally important, and he'd given Bobbi a list of things to work on so chances were pretty good that he wouldn't be missed. He had tried to come talk to the social worker during his lunch period, but he hadn't been there, or maybe he'd been having some other not-a-support-group in the back room... or maybe it really _was_ a support group. He had no idea and it wasn't really any of his business.

"You got a minute?" he asked. 

Mr. Coulson looked up from the file he'd been reading and closed it. "For you? Always."

He probably said that to all of the kids, Clint figured, but still, it was kind of nice to hear. He stepped into the office and after a moment's hesitation closed the door behind him. He thought he saw a flicker of surprise on the social worker's face, but he didn't say anything besides, "Have a seat."

Clint sat. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unclenching his fingers from the fists they'd balled themselves into. "It's not about me," he blurted out when the silence got too heavy. "Not all about me, anyway."

Now Mr. Coulson looked worried. "Natasha?"

"No." Clint looked up, met his eyes. "No, not her. She's all right, unless she's not telling me something." But after they'd talked, cleared the air, he didn't think she would be. She wasn't showing any of the signs she'd used to when there was something eating away at her that she didn't want to say. "But no, it's not about her. It's not about anyone at this school, but I didn't know who else to talk to."

"One of the kids at home?" Mr. Coulson asked.

Clint shook his head again, rocking his chair back on its back legs until he was tipped at a precarious angle, then letting it fall forward again with a thud. "No. It's a kid from this summer – the camp I worked at? His name is Lewis and I had to do volunteer hours for Civics and Steve got me involved in this afterschool tutoring program, and he was there so I've been working with him for the last couple of months, and... he needs help. He needs _a lot_ of help, more help than I can give him, and I don't know what to do, but if someone doesn't do something soon, this kid is pretty much screwed."

Mr. Coulson picked up a pen, holding it poised over a notepad that seemed to have appeared in front of him out of thin air. "Do you know his last name?"

"Becker," Clint said. "Lewis Becker."

"Do you know which school he goes to?" The district had multiple elementary schools, so it made a difference. 

"Shield. I think all of the kids in the program are from Shield."

"Okay. So... what makes you think that—" Mr. Coulson stopped himself. "First, and I'm not saying this to deter you but because I need to make sure that you are aware of it, but first I need you to know that I am required to report it to social services if I feel that a child may be being abused or neglected. I'm also required to report if I believe someone is at risk of doing harm to themselves or others."

"I know," Clint said. "It's... I don't know. I don't think he's being abused. Not... exactly. Or neglected, if by neglected you mean that he's not getting food and clothing and all that."

"There are different forms of neglect," Mr. Coulson said. "Not getting proper food, clothing, housing, hygiene – those are the ones that people mostly think of. There is also academic neglect, if they aren't making sure that the child attends school, but that's obviously not the case if he's in a tutoring program, and there's medical neglect, and emotional neglect, although that's the hardest to prove."

"It's... I don't know. Maybe it's that. But I don't know the whole story. I don't know what I don't see."

"That's true," Mr. Coulson said. "Why don't you tell me what you _do_ see?"

Clint sighed, rocking back again, and then forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "He can't talk. Or... he can, if by talking you mean he makes sounds. He's obviously _trying_ to communicate, and he knows words, because he can read and write. Like if we read a book and then I ask him question about it, he can answer them. He's even a pretty good speller, for a little kid. But... it's like he knows what he wants to say but the words just won't come out. And I don't mean like a stutter or something. I mean they just get completely mangled in his mouth and what comes out is just gibberish. Over the summer... over the summer I started to teach him to sign, so that even if he couldn't sign whole sentences, he could sign key words, and it would help me fill in the blanks of all the words I wasn't understanding when he was saying them. It was actually working pretty well, and he went from having meltdowns all the time to being a pretty happy kid."

Mr. Coulson nodded. "Go on."

"Then at the end of the summer I met his father, and he was just... well, he was pretty much a dick. But what could I do, y'know? It was the last day of camp, and I didn't think I would ever see Lewis again, and I just... kind of forgot about it. But then when I started volunteering, there he was again. He was happy to see me, but... he wouldn't sign anymore. We were pretty much back to square one, except now he wasn't even willing to _try_ to sign. But he understood when I did. Once or twice he would start to sign something, and one time he actually smacked his own hand, like he was telling himself that he was bad and he had to stop. Like... like he knew that's what was supposed to happen if he signed." Clint swallowed, breathed out slowly. "And then right before break I told Lewis it was my last day, and he kind of... freaked out. He ran off, and I went to find him, and I was sitting with him in the hall and... his father and some of the other volunteers found us there, and his father... lost it. Basically accused me of doing things that I would _never_ fucking do, and then... then accused me of trying to teach his son how to be handicapped. But that's bullshit, because I was trying to teach him how to _not_ be handicapped. Like, does he think that _not being able to communicate_ isn't a handicap?"

"The Americans with Disabilities Act certainly thinks that it is," Mr. Coulson said. "What ended up happening?"

"He told me to stay away from his son. I said that I wouldn't. At least I'm pretty sure that's what I said, and I'm pretty sure I didn't swear at him when I did. It's kind of a blur, to be honest. But I basically told him that I wasn't going to go away, and that I was trying to help his kid, and... He'll probably end up pulling Lewis out of tutoring, or insisting to the people who run it that I can't be his tutor anymore or something. Which is why I figured, since I don't know if I'm going to be able to help him anymore, that I would see if someone else could."

Mr. Coulson looked over the notes that he'd made and nodded. "I'll talk to the social worker at Shield Elementary," he said. "See if she's familiar with his case, if they've already got an IEP in place – it sounds like he needs on – if he's in speech therapy, who his classroom performance is, that kind of thing. I can't promise that it will make any difference, but it's possible that he's already getting interventions at school, and that it's just his dad who's the problem. Which doesn't really make it _better_ , considering that parents have a lot of influence even inside the school system, but it's a first step."

"Okay," Clint said. "Just... will you tell me? If there's anything I can do, I mean?"

"I can't really divulge anything about another student," Mr. Coulson said, "even though I know you have the best of intentions. I can't even be sure if the social worker there will tell _me_ anything, since there is no real reason for me to know at this point. In six or seven years when he ends up here, then it will be my business to know. But I'll tell you what I can, and yes, I'll let you know if there's anything else that you can do."

"Thanks," Clint said, not feeling as good about the meeting as he'd hoped he would. Sure, Mr. Coulson would look into it – he believed him when he said it – but that didn't mean anything was going to change, and the longer it all went on without him getting the help that he needed, the worse his chances were for the rest of his life. Wasn't that how it worked? The earlier the intervention, the better the outcome? He was pretty sure he'd heard Mrs. Sullivan say something like that before, about how Connor would be much worse off if they'd gotten him when he was older.

"Was there anything else?" Mr. Coulson asked.

Clint shook his head. "No. I guess that's everything. I should be getting to rehearsal."

"All right." The social worker smiled at him. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It says a lot about you that you're so concerned about him."

Clint shrugged. "It doesn't mean a damn thing if nothing changes," he said.

"I don't know," Mr. Coulson said. "Sometimes just knowing that someone cares can make a pretty big difference. And I think he knows that." He paused, then said, "Have you ever thought about going into social work?"

Clint laughed. He didn't mean to, but he did. "Yeah, right," he said. "I've got my own problems – how could I ever help anyone with theirs?"

"You're helping Lewis," Mr. Coulson said. "You helped Natasha."

"I brought it to you," Clint said. "I dumped it on you because it was more than I could figure out on my own."

"You didn't _dump_ either one of them on me," Mr. Coulson said. "You knew your limitations and you recruited help. Do you think I've never had to ask for help with a student?"

Clint considered, then shrugged. 

"Believe me, I have. It takes a village to raise a child and all of that, but sometimes things are just too big for one person to handle. Natasha was in trouble, and she came to you to share the load, and when it was too heavy for both of you, you brought it to me, and I called the FBI. It's not dumping something on someone else. It's finding the right resources to help alleviate a situation. It's what social work is all about." He set down his pen. "It's something to think about. I think you could be good at it."

"Yeah, okay," Clint said. "Anyway, thanks again."

"If you need anything else, you know where to find me."

Clint left, heading for the auditorium, his steps dragging as he walked because he wasn't in any hurry to get there. Yeah, it might help clear his head, being able to just banging on things until they did what he wanted them to... or he might be walking into the middle of a crisis, and he didn't think he had it in him to put out any more fires at the moment.

Natasha poked her head out of the room where the costume crew had set up when she saw him walk past. _Did you go to see Mr. Coulson?_ , she asked, because she knew that he'd failed to at lunch.

_Yeah. He's going to reach out to the social worker at Lewis's school._ He shrugged. _It might not do any good._

_But it might,_ Natasha said, then turned her head at the sound of someone cursing in the background. _I have to go. I'll see you later?_

_Later,_ he said, and headed for the stage.

He found Bobbi sitting in the middle of the stage, safety goggles pushed up on her head to hold her hair out of her face in place of a headband. She looked up when she heard him approaching. "Think you can figure this out? I don't know if it's actually broken, or if it's just jammed or what, but I can't get the... whaddayacallit to open so I can change the bit."

Clint took the drill from her and looked it over. "It's called the chuck, and I'm pretty sure it's not broken. It takes a lot to break one of these things... which is good, because otherwise we'd go through one a week at least." He managed to unstick the part that had stuck, and handed it back to her. "There."

"Thanks." She got up and went over to one of the members of the crew. "Everything's well under way, boss," she said as she sat back down. "Feel free to do rounds." 

"I'm not the boss," Clint said. 

"Yeah, actually, you kind of are," Bobbi said. "Whether you want to be or not. Everyone's looking to you to find out what's next, what needs to be done. They're looking to you for guidance and inspiration."

"No pressure," he said. He knew that she was (probably) mostly teasing, but she wasn't entirely wrong, and that freaked him out. He didn't want people looking up to him; he was way too much of a screw up. Except... things weren't actually that screwed up this year. A lot of the kids from the year before had come back, which meant he hadn't scared them off, and they came back knowing more than they had the previous year. It was kind of nice, getting to sit back and look around and see everything running smoothly.

"Did you talk to her?" Bobbi asked, drawing Clint back to the here and now so fast he felt like he got some kind of mental whiplash.

"Yes," he said.

"And?"

"And..." Clint shrugged. "And whatever happens, wherever we end up going and doing... we want to do it together."

Bobbi smiled. "So that's good, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's good. That's... better than good."

"I told you," Bobbi said. "You just had to have a little faith in her."

"It doesn't mean she won't change her mind later," Clint said. 

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Of course it doesn't, but that's the case with any relationship. Just because things are good now doesn't mean they'll be good in a month or a year or ten years. It also doesn't mean that they won't be, though. Just keep talking, keep figuring it out. That's what matters."

"Yeah," Clint agreed, and pushed himself up to go check on one of the kids who seemed to be struggling. He made the rounds, as Bobbi called it, making sure that no one needed a hand, or was messing something up irreparably. 

Eventually, though, he ran out of people to check on, and he found himself drawn back to where Bobbi was looking over a drafted plan for one of the last big set pieces that needed to get built. He sat down across from her. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," she said, but she looked up. "What's up?"

"Do, uh... to apply for college, do you have to do that by a certain date?"

Bobbi's jaw dropped open slightly, and Clint knew that he'd just asked a really dumb question. Whoever it was who said there were no stupid questions had obviously never met a Barton, he decided. But she closed it, and her expression softened. "Yes," she said, "although it does depend where you want to apply. Some schools have what's called rolling admission – you can pretty much apply at any time, there's no deadline, although there's deadlines for when you have to enroll for classes for a certain semester. So, like, you could apply over the summer, and if you get accepted, as long as it's before the registration deadline for that semester, you can start classes in the fall, but if it's after, you won't be able to take classes until the next semester."

"But for the ones that don't have that?"

"It's usually mid-January," Bobbi said. "So if you're thinking of applying... you need to get it done really, really soon."

"Great," Clint said. "Is it... is it complicated?"

"It depends on the school," Bobbi said. "And the program. Since you're not – probably not, I guess I should say, I could be wrong – going into anything in the arts or anything, you wouldn't have to do an audition or present a portfolio or anything like that. But you want to do the basic application online, and figure out if there are any schools you want to go to that don't accept it, and then what other requirements they might have. Pretty much every school requires at least one essay, but they're really short and you've got plenty to write about so you shouldn't have a problem. Then there's financial aid, and scholarships, letters of recommendation... yeah, okay, it's kind of a pain in the ass, when you get right down to it, but if it's what you want to do, I'll help you, and I'm sure Natasha will, your foster parents, your guidance counselor, Mr. Coulson... If it's what you want to do, don't let a deadline stop you, Clint."

"I don't know," Clint said. "I should have figured this out a long time ago, except..."

"Except you've only even thought of it as even a remote possibility for the last couple of years, while most of us are aware that we'll probably be going through the whole process at least from the time we start high school, if not before, and you've only started to think of it as a real possibility within the last few _days_ , so you get a pass. Seriously, don't beat yourself up. It won't help. If it's what you want, we'll make it happen."

Clint looked at her. "Why do you care so much?" he asked.

"Because you're my friend, dummy," she said. "It's what friends do. So how about tomorrow after school we meet at the library – you can bring Nat if you want to – and we'll get this party started?"

"It doesn't sound like much of a party," Clint grumbled.

"Then you're not doing it right. Now promise." Bobbi held up her hand, pinkie extended.

"Promise what?"

She took his hand and hooked his pinkie with hers. "Promise you'll meet me and let me help."

"It doesn't seem like I really have a choice."

"You don't," Bobbi said, "because you just pinkie promised, and everyone knows those are unbreakable. Even—" she added, before he could object, "people who were raised in the circus or by wolves."


	21. Chapter 21

Clint cleared his throat, one foot in the kitchen and the other still in the hall. His stomach was in knots, and part of him was pretty sure that this was a bad idea and he should just turn around and go back upstairs, just forget about all of this because who the hell did he think he was, anyway?

Who the hell did Natasha, Bobbi, Mr. Coulson, any of them think he was, that this – college – was a thing that he could actually do? 

Mrs. Sullivan turned from where she was pulling dishes from the dishwasher and drying the remaining drips of water from them before handing them over to Mr. Sullivan to be put away. "Did you need something?" she asked. 

"Uh... yeah. Kind of. Not exactly, but..." _Smooth, Barton. Really smooth. They're totally going to take you seriously when you're babbling._

But they weren't _not_ taking him seriously, mostly just looking confused and maybe a little bit concerned. "Whatever it is, just go ahead and ask," Mr. Sullivan said, in a tone that Clint assumed was meant to be encouraging, but really it just made him feel like more of an idiot, but that was probably just him being... well, an idiot. 

Why did this all have to be so damn _hard_?

"I'm doing college applications," he finally said. "But there's application fees, and there's been no snow so my income is pretty much—"

"You're applying to college?" Mrs. Sullivan asked, and would it have killed her to _not_ sound quite so shocked about it? But then the startled look shifted into a smile. "That's wonderful. I – we – didn't want to push you, or put pressure on you about your future, but I have to admit that I was getting a little concerned that you hadn't talked about any kind of plan at all. On the other hand, I knew it was also possible that you just weren't talking to us, or me, about it."

Clint just stood there with his mouth hanging slightly open, trying to process what Mrs. Sullivan had said, trying to figure out if she was somehow insulting him, and if he was, if he actually cared. Back in the beginning he definitely wouldn't have, but things had changed and...

"So you need money for the application fees?" Mr. Sullivan asked.

"Not—Not exactly," Clint said. "I'm pretty sure since I'm a ward of the state or whatever, I qualify to have the fees waived, at least in part, most of them, but there's some form that needs to be filled out and even though I'm eighteen I guess I can't sign for myself?" 

"We'll sign it," Mr. Sullivan said. "It's not a problem. And anything that you do get charged, just let us know and we'll make sure that it's covered."

"You don't—" he started, but Mrs. Sullivan waved it away.

"Of course we do. We're your parents. Guardians. You're our responsibility, and that includes making sure that you have the tools that you need to achieve to your maximum potential, in whatever form that takes."

"I..." Clint forced himself to close his mouth, his breath sounding too loud in his ears, like he'd just run a race or something and couldn't quite get enough oxygen into his lungs, or maybe like the walls were closing in. "I just don't..." He shrugged, not finishing the sentence, because he didn't want them to try to reassure him that he wasn't a burden. 

"I know that you know that the state gives us money for your care," Mr. Sullivan said. "I'm pretty sure this qualifies."

"Oh," Clint said, because it honestly hadn't occurred to him. "Right." Maybe it was just that he'd always assumed that whatever money they got wasn't actually enough to cover anything beyond the basics, but maybe that was wrong... or maybe it wasn't, but they actually meant what they said about helping him achieve his potential or whatever.

"Where's the form?" his foster father asked, going to get a pen from the little cup that was magneted to the refrigerator. Clint put it down on the table, and Mr. Sullivan signed it with a flourish. "There you go."

"Where are you applying?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. "Are you looking at schools around here?" 

"No," Clint said. "Not really. I'm looking at schools in Boston, mostly."

"Boston is a great city," Mr. Sullivan said. "I know some of your friends are already there, so that will be nice."

He nodded. "Yeah." He didn't say that he'd decided on schools in Boston because that was where Natasha had mostly applied, but then she had done so with the idea that it would be possible for both of them to find schools there that would work for them, even if they didn't end up at the _same_ school. The living situation would be a little more complicated, even if they were at the same school, but the one time he'd brought it up, Natasha had told him they could worry about that later, once they knew where they were going.

"Do you have your essays and everything done?" Mr. Sullivan asked. "I could read them over, if you wanted."

"Uh..."

He laughed. "Or not. It's up to you. I definitely recommend having _someone_ read them, though, just to look for any mistakes that spell check might not have caught."

"Natasha read them," Clint said, "and Bobbi. They were helping me."

"That's great."

"What about letters of recommendation?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. 

"Mr. Coulson," Clint said, "the head of the drama club, and the director at the camp." Because Steve had said that it would look better coming from her than from Steve, who wasn't really anyone in the grand scheme of things. 

"None of your teachers?" she asked.

"I don't know any of my teachers that well," Clint said. "Anyway, what are they going to say? 'Clint is an average student who gets average grades and misses half of what's said but at least he's not a disruption'? I figured I would go for people that might actually have something good to say about me."

"You've done a lot better than I think anyone expected, giving your lack of early schooling," Mr. Sullivan pointed out, "but that's fair enough. A really wise decision, honestly. If they're talking about all of your other accomplishments, it might help balance out a more rocky academic history."

"And you've shown improvement in your grades since you started," Mrs. Sullivan added. "When you first got here, you were getting mostly Cs and a few Bs. Now you're a solid B student, and I don't worry about seeing any failing grades when I look at your report card."

"Go me," Clint mumbled. He knew they were trying to be encouraging, but it just made him squirm. "Anyway, I have some homework to finish up, so I should... do that."

"Of course," Mr. Sullivan said, handing him back the form. "Don't let us keep you."

Clint fled back up the stairs and shut his door behind him, leaning against it like he expected someone to try to come barging through after him.

Which didn't happen, exactly, although he'd only just peeled himself away from the wood (or whatever the door was made of, Carol could probably have told him if he really cared to know) when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the text message on his screen. 

It was from Mrs. Sullivan. 'Phone call for you. Come down and get cordless.'

He couldn't help smiling, even as he wondered who would be calling him on the house phone instead of his cell, at the fact that she'd texted him from downstairs. But the younger boys were in bed, supposed to be asleep, and with his hearing what it was, it made more sense than yelling up the stairs anyway.

He went back down, and she handed him the cordless phone. _Who?_ , he signed, then realized he was doing and let his hand drop. 

"Mr. Coulson," she told him, even though he hadn't actually asked the question out loud. Maybe she'd understood the sign, although he wasn't sure how she would have, unless she'd decided to start learning herself, and when would she do that? She didn't exactly have large amounts of free time. And _why_ would she do it? But maybe it was just a natural question to ask when you got a phone call and she'd answered it without realizing that that was what he was asking.

"Hello?" He headed back upstairs, and if either of his foster parents made any kind of motion to stop him, he didn't see it, and they didn't follow him, so he guessed it was all right. He would just have to remember to take it back down later.

"Hello. I'm sorry to call you at home, and at this hour, but I wanted to talk to you," the social worker said. "Is this a bad time?"

"No," Clint said. "No, it's fine."

"Good. So I wanted to talk to you about the situation that you brought to me the other day," Mr. Coulson said. "With the little boy that you'd been mentoring."

"Right," Clint said. "What about it?"

"I reached out to the social worker for his school. Obviously she couldn't give me a lot of information, and even what she did give to me, I can't really give to you, but I did want to let you know that she is aware of who he is, so he's at least on the radar enough for that. She says that she's going to see about arranging some time to meet with him and talk to him."

Clint snorted. "For all the good that will do."

"What do you mean?" Mr. Coulson asked. 

Clint sighed. "That's the whole problem, isn't it? That he can't talk."

"When you work with kids that young, you have other methods of getting information from them. Asking them to draw pictures, that kind of thing. I wouldn't assume that it's hopeless. She's also going to talk to his teachers, and see about talking to his parents. I know that you've said that his father is a problem, but have you had any dealings with his mother?"

He shook his head, then realized that Mr. Coulson couldn't hear it. "Not really. I've seen her once or twice, but I've never really interacted with her."

"All right. So maybe there's a chance we can get through that way. By and large, parents want what's best for their children, and in situations where the child may not be thriving, sometimes one parent is oblivious, either because they're not paying attention or willfully so, but the other parent is more aware and maybe just doesn't know how to reach out and get the resources that they need, or is blocked from doing so by the other parent."

"Okay," Clint said. He still wasn't sure why Mr. Coulson was telling him all of this. It was nice to know, he guessed, since he hadn't seen Lewis since that last meeting before the holiday break. Mentoring had started back up, but true to his threats, Lewis' father had kept him away from it, leaving Clint regretting his decision to come back, because he had to work with other students, and the kids didn't seem to have any interest at all in doing anything other than goof around. 

"I guess I should probably get to the point," Mr. Coulson said. "When I contacted the social worker, I let her know that this had all been brought to my attention by one of my students, and I wanted to let you know that she may want to meet with you. She may not, but she may."

"Uh... okay," Clint said. "Why?"

"Because other than his parents and his teachers, you may very well be the person – adult – who knows him best, and you certainly seem to be the one most invested in getting him help at this point. That's valuable."

"Okay," he repeated, for what felt like the millionth time, because he didn't know what else to say. "I don't know if that's a good idea. If his – Lewis' – father knows that I'm involved, he's just going to dig in his heels more."

"Just because she talks to you doesn't mean that she'll tell anyone else that you're involved. That will be up to you and her. I just wanted to give you a head's up that she may contact you. Is it all right for me to give her your phone number?"

"I guess so," Clint said. "Or email. Email might be better. Phone is kind of... hard." 

"I'm sorry," Mr. Coulson said. "I didn't think about that."

"It's okay," Clint said. "Most people don't. It's kind of the point."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I hide it well that I'm not... the same as everyone else. That I can't do what everyone else does the same way or as well all the time. It's just... easier."

"Easier isn't always better," Mr. Coulson pointed out, "but that's probably a conversation for another day."

"Do you know when this might happen?" Clint asked. "When she might call?"

"I don't," he said. "She might not. But if she does, I would expect it will probably be within the next day or two. Or... early next week, I guess, since it's the weekend."

"Right." Clint glanced out the window, looking to see if it had started to snow yet. It was supposed to, but so many threatened storms had fizzled this winter, he wasn't really going to believe it until he saw it. "Thanks for letting me know."

"You're welcome. I'll keep you posted as much as I can, and let me know if there's anything else that you want me to pass along."

"I will," Clint said. It all felt kind of futile, like there were too many people involved, too many layers of red tape or whatever to go through, but what else could he do? At least he was doing something, and that had to count for, well, something, right?

"I'll see you in school," Mr. Coulson said. "Have a good weekend."

"Thanks," Clint said. "Uh... you too."

And then the social worker hung up, and Clint took the phone back downstairs, placing it carefully back in the cradle without drawing the attention of his foster parents, who would almost certainly want to know what the call had been about. He retreated back upstairs for a third time, and this time he pulled out his hearing aids to shut out the rest of the world, letting it settle quietly around him.

'I miss you,' he texted Natasha. He couldn't remember the last weekend night they'd spent apart.

'I'm right here,' she texted back. 'How can you miss me when I'm in your hand?'

He smiled despite himself. 'Because you're not in my bed.'

'Tsk. Not allowed.'

'I'm not in your bed, either.'

'Neither am I.'

'Where are you?'

'Downstairs. Movie night.'

'Jess okay?'

'Fine. Glaring at me.'

'So what else is new? I'll let you go.'

'I'm here if you need me.'

'I know.'

'I know you know.'

'Night. <3'

'Night. 2'

Clint rolled his eyes. 'Still not funny.'

'Always funny.'

Clint let it go because he knew it wasn't an argument that he could win. He set his phone on the edge of his bed and set up his laptop to watch a movie. He should have asked what Natasha was watching so he could join her, but he didn't want to text again and interrupt her night. Not unless he really needed her, and missing her wasn't the same thing as _needing_ her, urgently, immediately. And they'd have to figure out how to be apart sometimes at some point, so better to start now, and hope it wasn't ever for forever.


	22. Chapter 22

"Why did they even bother having us come in?" Sam asked, leaning back in his seat in the cafeteria, where Clint had Natasha had ended up herded when they'd been caught somewhere they weren't supposed to be during their lunch period. (They weren't doing anything _wrong_ , they'd tried to argue, but no, no sitting in the hallways, you need to be _somewhere_ , now go.) "No one is paying any attention to anything, including the teachers. No one wants to be here."

"Because they don't know long we're going to be closed for with the storm," Clint said. "Do you remember the last one? Two years ago?"

Sam shook his head. "I wasn't here two years ago," he reminded Clint. "And a lot of storms down hit down the city the way they do up here. Which is all the more reason to go back there." He glanced out the window, where snowflakes were drifting down but not really sticking the pavement... yet. "You think we're really going to get three feet?"

"Is that what they're saying now?" Clint asked. "Shit. I hope not."

"Weren't you complaining about no snow this year?" Natasha teased.

"That didn't mean I wanted a whole winter's worth in one storm!" Clint retorted, but he couldn't help smiling. He nudged her foot under the table, and she bumped her knee against his in return. She was antsy; he could see it, although she controlled herself well enough that Sam didn't notice. (Or maybe he was just polite – or smart – enough not to comment.)

"Why would you want it to snow?" Sam asked. "I hate snow. It just messes up the ability to get around, and within minutes of falling it just looks dirty, at least in New York."

"Not here," Clint said. "Not all of it, anyway. It messes up getting around, though. But the reason I want snow is because I can make money off people who don't want to shovel. I hurt like hell for a couple of days after, but at least I can keep gas in my car."

"Ah, gotcha. And you like doing that?"

"What part of 'hurt like hell for a couple of days' makes it sound like I like it?" Clint asked. "I don't _like_ it, but I like having money and I like not having to rely on my foster parents for it, so I do what I gotta do."

"Gotcha," Sam said. He looked out the window again and asked, "Do you think they'll let us out early?"

"Probably," Clint said. "A lot of schools were already saying last night that they were getting out early today."

"Do you think there's any chance at all there's gonna be school tomorrow?"

"Yes," Natasha said, looking up from whatever had been holding her attention on her phone. "The chance a snowball has in hell."

Clint snorted. "That sounds about right."

"That depends on what version of Hell you're talking about," Sam said, sitting up a little straighter. "Not every—"

"Shove it, church boy," Jessica said, sliding into the seat next to Natasha. Sam wisely did not reply. "I just got a text from Carol, who just talked to Steve. He's thinking about trying to get everyone together at his place tonight. Storm party or whatever."

"Why?" Natasha asked.

"Why? I have no idea why. Because the whole world is going to shut down tomorrow so he might as well have good company while we're all stuck inside? To keep us kids out of trouble? You want to know why, _you_ ask him."

"So what this has to do with me?" Natasha asked. 

Jessica's eyes rolled so far it looked like they might get stuck in the back of her head. "He's trying to get _everyone_ together. Last I checked, _everyone_ includes you. Unless you've decided you're not his friend anymore?"

"No," Natasha said. "So he asks Carol to ask you to ask me?"

"To ask Clint, to ask... whoever. Pretty much. Or Carol said she would handle it, rather than him trying to get hold of a bunch of kids stuck in educational jail. So do you want to? I'm going with Carol. You can do what you want."

Natasha glanced at Clint. "Do you think the Sullivans will let you?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "Probably. They – I guess Mrs. Sullivan, mostly – have loosened up a lot about things like that this year." In part, he was sure, because he could always argue that he was 19 and could pretty much do what he wanted to do, he didn't really _need_ their permission, although he wouldn't play that card if he didn't have to because then they could always argue back that as long as he lived under their roof he had to follow their rules, and he didn't have any other roof to live under at the moment. But he liked to think it was mostly due to the fact that they were actually starting him to make responsible decisions. He hadn't exactly set out to prove that he was capable of doing so, but it was kind of nice to know that he had.

"Do you want to?"

"It could be fun," he said. It sounded like more fun than being stuck at his house with the little boys rattling around the place, going stir crazy if they couldn't go outside (and Connor hated being cold, so he wouldn't), or even sitting around at Mr. Fury's. "But then what am I going to do about shoveling?"

"There probably are people around Steve's house that don't want to shovel, just like everywhere. Maybe more people, because where he lives they have not so much money as where you live, so maybe not so many snow..."

"Blowers," Clint finished for her when she seemed to have lost the end of the word. "But less money also means less likely to pay."

"Is up to you," she said. "Always you can leave in morning to go back home and do what you need."

"That's true," Clint said. "All right. I'll talk to Mrs. Sullivan and let her know."

"And you can talk to Mr. Fury and let _him_ know," Jessica said, and then they both understood why she'd come to Natasha. She thought that Natasha was more likely to get a yes from him than she was herself... and it was entirely possible that she wasn't wrong.

In the end, they did get out early, and they all secured permission to go to Steve's for the night... including Sam, who had somehow ended up included in the invitation. Clint wasn't sure exactly who all had been invited, but he was surprised when, as they were leaving, Pepper said that she would see them all later. He'd kind of always thought of her as Tony's friend... enemy... frenemy? What a stupid word, but it seemed to suit them rather well. 

"I don't want you driving around too much in this," Mr. Fury told him, catching him in the hallway as they were heading out to the parking lot. "So I'm going to drive the girls home to get their stuff and then bring them to Steve's."

"Is it that bad?" Clint asked. 

"Not yet," Mr. Fury said, "but they really don't seem to know when it might start to get bad, and my car is better suited for driving in snow than yours is. I just want to look out for all of your safety. So you go home to your place, and don't drive out to ours, and you'll see them later."

Natasha touched his arm, drawing his attention. _Don't worry. He won't change his mind._

_How do you know?_

_I know,_ she said. _I made him promise that he wouldn't._

_Okay._ He reached out and caught her hand, acutely aware of the fact that Mr. Fury, AKA the principal, AKA Natasha's foster father, was standing right there, and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go. "I'll see you later," he said.

"Later," she agreed, and followed Mr. Fury to his office, where he undoubtedly had things he needed to finish up before they could actually leave. 

He went out to his own car and discovered that the roads were pretty much just wet at this point. He hoped they would stay that way for another few hours, because after Natasha's reassurances, he started to worry that the Sullivans might decide that he shouldn't leave if the roads got too bad. He would just have to pack up his stuff and head over to Steve's early, before things took a turn for the worse.

"You're the first to arrive," Steve said when he showed up. "You parked behind the house, right?"

"Yeah. I figured if they haven't already they'll ban street parking, so..." Clint shrugged. 

"Where's Natasha?" Steve asked, looking past him to see if she was coming around the corner or something. "I thought... assumed... she would be with you."

"She needed to get stuff for overnight, and Mr. Fury didn't want me driving all the way out there and back, so he's bringing them."

"Okay," Steve said. "Good." He moved out of the way so that Clint could actually step inside. "I hope you brought your snow shovel. We're going to need all the help we can get." 

Clint smirked. "Is that the real reason you wanted everyone to come over? To help shovel you out of this place?"

"It's a corner lot," Steve said, "which means we've got twice as much sidewalk, _and_ we've got a hydrant, _and_ the long driveway with the little lot in the back, so... yeah. Pretty much." He grinned back. "Actually, I just started thinking about how if Tony were here, he might do something like this – throw a Snow Day party – and, well... we've got space here, right? Especially since one of our roommates switched schools and moved out."

"Is that going to be a problem for you?" Clint asked. "I mean, money-wise?"

Steve shrugged. "Not right away. As long as we can find someone else to move in pretty quick, it shouldn't be too big of a deal."

Clint nodded, feeling suddenly awkwardly adult, like people their age shouldn't be having this kind of conversation. Then again, people their age shouldn't have already lived the lives that they had, right? "Where's Peggy?"

"Picking up Sharon from school," Steve said. "I... didn't know that was going to happen when I invited everyone over. But I guess her mom – Sharon's mom, Peggy's sister – is considered essential personnel, so she can't leave work, and someone has to look after her."

"I don't think anyone will mind too much," Clint said. "We'll all just have to remember to watch our mouths."

"She's probably already heard it all anyway," Steve said with a sigh. "Peggy should be back with her in a little while."

When Peggy arrived, it was not only with Sharon in tow, but also Bobbi, Pepper, and Sam.

"I'm here," Sam announced. "The party has arrived."

"Is that like your Jersey Shore name?" Bobbi asked. "The Party?"

" _You_ watch Jersey Shore?" Pepper asked, her tone somewhere between shock and horror.

"Not by choice," Bobbi said. "I had a really horrible hospital roommate once."

"I think I would have told the staff that my Constitutional rights were being violated, and it was cruel and unusual punishment and they either needed to make her change the channel or move me," Pepper said. "I saw about five seconds of one episode once and I think my IQ dropped 10 points."

"I don't think that's actually possible," Bobbi said. 

"For your IQ to drop?" Pepper asked. "I'm sure that—"

"For your IQ to drop just from watching a TV show," Bobbi said. "It's not that simple. Not that IQ is any kind of absolute measure of anything. You can have a really high IQ and functionally just be an idiot. There are so many super smart people who have absolutely no common sense whatsoever."

"And there are people who are very smart and have no sense of self-preservation," Pepper said. "Like, say, Tony."

"I don't know that it's a lack of self-preservation," Steve commented. "I think he just doesn't always think things through. He gets an idea and he just starts rolling with it, without really considering whether he _should_ do it."

"He should be a Tumblr meme," Bobbi suggested. "Tony, don't do the thing. Tony: I'mma do the thing."

"Oh God," Pepper groaned. "Don't ever, _ever_ say that to him."

"What?" Bobbi asked. "Did you just say to text Tony and tell him the thing?"

"Don't do the thing!" Pepper pleaded.

Bobbi grinned. "I'mma do the thing."

"I hate you so much right now," Pepper said, but Clint was pretty sure she didn't mean it.

The snow started to come down harder as they began to discuss whether they wanted to watch a movie and what they were going to do about dinner, and the wind caught it and blew it almost sideways. Clint pulled his phone out of his pocket to see if he'd missed any messages from Natasha, but there wasn't anything. He hesitated, then texted, 'Are you on your way?'

A second later his phone buzzed. 'Just getting in car now. Roads are not bad. Will be there soon.'

He breathed a sigh of relief and tucked his phone back into his pocket, and was immediately dragged into a debate over whether cooked peppers on pizza (or in general) were delicious or evil. He had to side with evil on that one, and further disappoint by saying that mushrooms and black olives – really anything remotely vegetable-like – really didn't belong on a pizza.

"You can share my pizza with me," Sharon said, tugging on his hand. "I only like cheese."

"Not even pepperoni?" Clint asked, crouching down to be on her level. 

She scrunched up her nose and shook her head. "No. I don't like eating things I don't know where they come from."

"You have a point," Clint said. "Does that mean you don't eat chicken fingers? Because chickens don't have fingers."

She laughed and shook her head. "No! That's just cut up from the rest of the chicken!"

"What about fish sticks? What part of the fish is the stick, exactly?"

The little girl laughed again. "I don't know, but I don't like fish sticks!"

"Me either," Clint said. 

"You can still share my pizza with me if you want to," Sharon said. "Okay?"

"Okay," Clint agreed, and straightened back up as the door opened again, admitting a blast of wind and snow and Carol. 

Natasha and Jessica arrived a little later, and Steve looked around as if he was doing a head count. "I think that's everyone," he said. "So if we've made a decision about what pizzas we want, we should probably order now while the delivery people can still get here without putting themselves in danger."

"Wow," Sam said, coming up beside Clint. "We're really outnumbered."

"Are we?" Clint asked. "I guess I'm used to it." He hadn't even noticed that there were more than twice as many girls as boys. He spent so much time with Natasha, Jessica and Carol that he was used to being outnumbered. "Is it a problem?"

"No," Sam said. "I was just noticing. I read somewhere that in movies and stuff, in crowd scenes and stuff it's only one-third women, and so men are sort of indoctrinated to think that if a group is more than one-third women, that they're outnumbered. If a group is actually fifty-fifty, they think that there are more women than men. Which is some screwed up sh— stuff," he finished, noticing Sharon not far away. 

"Huh," Clint said. "I'm surprised Carol never mentioned that." Maybe she had and he just hadn't been paying attention. 

"Yeah," Sam said. "But this time we definitely _are_ outnumbered."

"I'd rather spend my time with these girls than most of the guys I've met," Clint said. "They're way less likely to do something epically dumb."

The pizza arrived, and they settled in to watch a movie (Frozen, at Sharon's request) and then, once she was settled in for the night, Bobbi pulled something out of her bag. "Cards Against Humanity," she said with a grin. "Anyone played before?"

No one had, so she explained how it worked... and they were very soon glad that Sharon was upstairs and across the house, because it was hard not to raucous, and also because if she had heard half of what they were saying, there would have been a lot of questions and a lot of, "Don't ever repeat that in front of your mother!"

The game went on for hours, and by the time they were done people were starting to drop, since they'd all (or at least the high school contingent) had to get up early that morning for school. They found chairs and couches and bits of floor to curl up on. Clint settled in with Natasha tucked against him, drawing a blanket over them. 

_Are you okay?_ , he asked, struggling to form the signs in the cramped space between their bodies. 

_Why wouldn't I be?_ , she asked in return.

_I was just thinking about the last time we had a big storm like this._

_So was I,_ Natasha said. _We got in trouble for getting caught curled up like this._

Clint smiled crookedly. _I was thinking more about—_

_I know,_ Natasha interrupted. _And I wasn't. I was thinking about how you found a way to keep me safe. That's all I **want** to think about._

_Okay,_ he signed. _I'm sorry._

_Don't be,_ Natasha said. _I'm not._

_Okay,_ Clint repeated.

Natasha laced her fingers through his, folding down her middle and ring fingers over his, leaving their index fingers, pinkies, and thumbs extended. 

"I know," he whispered, and pulled her closer, falling asleep quickly, breathing in the scent of her hair.

In the morning they discovered that the storm hadn't hit them nearly as badly as the forecasters had feared, although other parts of the state hadn't fared nearly as well, and Boston had gotten slammed... and was still getting slammed as they ate their breakfast and tried to decide what to do with the day, since the snow was still coming down and there was a travel ban in place that made it impossible to go anywhere. They found some tamer board games that could be played in the company of a little girl, and finally, around lunchtime, the snow began to taper off.

"I should head out," Clint said. 

"You still can't drive anywhere," Natasha said. "Travel ban is until two."

"And you're probably pretty snowed in," Peggy pointed out. 

"Then we should get out and start shoveling," Clint said. "It's not going to get any easier."

"No, it's not," she agreed, and once everyone was done eating, they bundled up and headed out. There weren't enough shovels to go around, so they took turns, until they had freed themselves from the driveway. As soon as they got the end cleared, the plow came by again, and they started over, but it wasn't too bad the second time around. 

"Okay," Clint said, " _now_ I should go."

"Why not stick around here?" Steve asked. "I was going to do the neighbor's. She's older, can't get around too well. I don't know if she has any money, but she makes great cookies, and I'm sure she's been baking up a storm – no pun intended."

Clint considered, then nodded. "Sure. I'll work for cookies."

Some of the others decided to head home, but only enough so that there were actually shovels for everyone. They went from house to house, helping for whatever people felt like paying, which was sometimes quite a bit, even split between several people, and sometimes cookies and hot cocoa. By the time they'd made their way back to the house, Clint was sweating despite the cold and aching, and ready to go home.

"Do you think there will be school tomorrow?" Jessica asked. 

"I think so," Natasha said. "Roads are not so bad. Maybe delay to come in, but I think it will be open."

"Damn. I guess we should probably call Mr. Fury, then."

"I'll drive you home," Carol and Clint said at the same time.

"I've got it," Carol said. "You actually have to worry about school tomorrow."

"Don't you?" Clint asked.

"I don't have any morning classes on Wednesday," Carol said, "so no. I'll get them home safe. I promise. Natasha can text you all the way there."

_It's fine,_ Natasha signed hastily. _I'll see you tomorrow._

He sighed. The idea of being able to go home and shower and get warm was a pretty appealing one. "Okay," he said out loud. "See you tomorrow."

Natasha turned to head for Carol's car, then stopped and came back to him, and pushed up on her toes to kiss him. _Next year,_ she signed, small like a whisper, _we won't have to go two separate ways. Next year home will be together._

_Promise?_ , he asked, gloves making his fingers clumsy.

_Promise._ And she kissed him again for good measure, in front of everyone and not caring, and that felt more like a promise than all the words in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another "ripped from the headlines" chapter. And guess what? There's another storm coming tonight/tomorrow. Ugh. Have I mentioned I hate snow?


	23. Chapter 23

"Hey," Loki said, catching Clint in the hall as he was about to head into the auditorium to meet with Bobbi and the rest of the crew to decide their plan for the day. He wedged himself between Clint and the door so he couldn't pull it open. "I need you to help me with something."

Clint looked past him at the auditorium door, hand poised in midair as he reached for the handle. "I need to—"

"It will only take a minute," Loki said. "I just need you to give me some information."

"What information?" Clint asked, wondering if Loki would see that as agreement that he would give it once he knew what it was. 

"Tony's email address," Loki said. "See? Nothing hard." He looked almost like he was trying to smile, but it wasn't exactly the most natural expression on his face. He looked more like he was acting now than when he was actually acting. But maybe he was. 

"Why?" Clint asked. 

"I need to ask him something," Loki said. "I thought I had it written down, but apparently I lost it."

"Hasn't he emailed you invitations to things? New Year's?"

"I..." The not-quite-smile slid into a scowl, his cheeks flushing pink, which was a glaring contrast to his usually milk-pale skin. Obviously he hadn't thought of that, which made Clint wonder what the heck was going on his head that he would miss something so obvious. Loki was a lot of things, but he wasn't _stupid_. "Right. Never mind." 

He tried to dodge past Clint, but now he was the one getting in the way, his curiosity piqued. "Why do you need it?" Clint asked. 

"It's none of your concern," Loki said. 

"But if I hadn't pointed out to you that you already had it, and I asked, what would you have told me?" 

"I would have told you that it was to send him an invitation to something," Loki said.

"And would that have been the truth?"

"Do you know who I'm named after?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "So no. Fine. Invitation to what? Am I invited?"

"My birthday party, and no, because there isn't one," Loki said. "Now I'm going to be late to rehearsal." He pushed past Clint, side-stepping only enough so that most of his body cleared the space that Clint was occupying; his shoulder... or mid-upper arm, really... collided with Clint's hard enough to rock him back a few inches.

"Always so charming," Clint mumbled, and went to deal with his own stuff. Whatever Loki needed with Tony was not his problem... unless it somehow became his problem, but how would that even happen? They weren't close; he wouldn't consider Loki a friend. A slightly more than casual acquaintance, that was all. Thor was a friend, kind of, or at least he was _friendly_ , which made it a lot easier to consider him a friend even if, when it came right down to it, he didn't really know Thor any better than he knew Loki.

On Wednesday, when they were gathering in Mr. Coulson's office, Loki didn't show up. It wasn't exactly unusual, although his attendance had been more regular (and somewhat less grudging) this year. While they were still waiting to get started, Clint looked around. "Does anyone know when Loki's birthday is?" he asked. 

"No idea," Bobbi said. "Why?"

"Just because he brought it up, and I guess... I don't know." He really _didn't_ know why he'd brought it up, except that when Loki had said that he wasn't having a party, there had been something kind of... bitter in his voice. Which wasn't unusual, but this had seemed to be coming from a deeper place than his usual chip on the shoulder.

"It's February 9," Pepper said, glancing up from a notebook or planner or something.

"Did you have that written down?" Bobbi asked.

"Yes," Pepper said. "I have everyone's birthdays written down. I don't like to forget things."

"Should we... do something?" Bobbi asked. "He's turning eighteen, right?"

"Right," Pepper agreed.

"That's kind of a big deal. Are his friends going to throw him a party? Or is he having a party for himself?"

"He doesn't _have_ friends," Jessica said. "I mean, I guess we're his friends? And there are the drama club kids, they're his friends, but I don't know if they're actually friend-friends or just... people he does stuff with for a few months every year." 

"I don't know if he thinks of us as friend-friends either," Natasha pointed out. 

"He said he wasn't having a party," Clint said. "But that could have been a lie so that my feelings didn't get hurt when I didn't get an invitation."

"As if that would actually hurt your feelings," Jessica said.

"It wouldn't," Clint said, "but hey, maybe he thought it would."

"Or maybe he was actually telling the truth," Bobbi said. "Which brings us back to the original question: should we do something? I'm sure someone," her gaze flicked to Pepper, "can find out pretty easily if he has something planned. If he doesn't, it seems kind of rude to just let his birthday go past unremarked, doesn't it? Even if he can be a giant pain in the butt sometimes, that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve to have a birthday party or something."

"I'll ask," Pepper said. "Or eavesdrop. I'm very good at finding out things that I need to know without anyone knowing that I'm finding out." She smiled.

"What we are going to do?" Natasha asked. "If something is not already planned, what we are going to do for him?"

"We'll think of something," Bobbi said. "It can't be that hard."

"What can't?" Sam asked, sauntering into the room, nonchalant like he wasn't ten minutes late. Although did it count as late if the person in charge wasn't there yet? He was stuck on some kind of call, and from the brief snatches of conversation that Clint occasionally caught, it didn't sound like that was going to change any time soon.

"Planning a party," Bobbi said. 

"For who?"

"For Loki."

Sam's expression slid from curiosity to a smile that looked almost maniacal. "Oh, I can plan a party for _him_. Why are we throwing him a party?"

"It's his birthday on the ninth," Clint said. "He's turning eighteen."

"Excellent," Sam said. "You leave it to me."

"I thought you hated him," Jessica said, her expression dubious. "Not that I care, I'm just saying."

"I don't hate Loki," Sam said. "I try not to hate anyone, even people who make it really, really easy. But no, I don't hate him. He might not say the same thing about me, but I think we've come to a kind of understanding."

"Are you serious?" Bobbi asked. "Not about the understanding, about the party. Because if you're serious—"

"Oh, I am _absolutely_ serious," Sam said. "This is so on."

"Okay then," Bobbi said. "If he's not already—"

"Oh no," Sam said. "I don't care if he's already got something planned. This is happening no matter what. I just need to arrange the logistics with my friend Pepper here, and we'll be in business."

Pepper looked up, alarmed. "I really don't have time to—"

"I know," Sam said. "I'm not asking you to do anything as far as planning goes. Don't worry. We'll talk."

'Don't worry, we'll talk,' was probably the most unreassuring reassurance ever, Clint decided, and from the look on her face, Pepper agreed.

In the end, he didn't know how much Pepper did or didn't do towards the planning of the party, but the main role that she played was making sure that rehearsal ended on time. His part, and Bobbi's along with him, was to make sure that the crew had everything set up in the choir room while the cast was finishing up on stage. He assumed that Pepper must have sold it as some kind of cast bonding activity or something to get permission to have it happen on school grounds. Since the adults actually in charge stuck around, it seemed likely. And hey, it kind of was, wasn't it?

The choir room door opened, and the cast started to pour through, to find that the room had been redecorated to look like a bigger version of the set of the ABC Café, where Enjolras met with the other revolutionaries in the show. There were drinks and food and a cake with an image of Enjolras on the barricade with the red flag from some production or other... while he was still alive, not the really famous image after his inevitable but untimely death.

They grabbed red, white, and blue cockades from a table, pinning them onto lapels. Some had cobbled together versions of costumes from their own closets (there was _no way_ they were allowed to eat in their real ones, which were also not done, and in a few cases hardly started), having been brought in on the surprise.

Last through the door was Loki, who stopped, dumbstruck, as the cast launched into a version of "Do You Hear the People Sing?" that they'd made up to be about his birthday. For a second it looked like he was going to turn and run, but as they finished he stepped the rest of the way into the room, looking around and shaking his head. "Thank you," he said. "This is amazing."

"You're welcome," Sam told him, stepping forward with a bottle of sparkling grape juice. "Drink with me?"

Some of the cast groaned, but Loki accepted the bottle, take a swallow from it, a little dribbling down his face as it sloshed. 

_**That** is why they're not allowed to wear their costumes,_ Natasha signed, her hip bumping against Clint's.

_No shit,_ he agreed. _It's pretty impressive, though._

_Sam did a good job._

_Only Sam?_ Clint asked, sticking out his lower lip in a pout.

_And Bobbi,_ Natasha teased.

_Just for that, I'm not getting you any cake,_ Clint retorted. 

Natasha raised an eyebrow. _Do you think I can't get my own cake?_

"What are you two talking about?" Jessica asked. 

Clint hadn't even heard her approach. "Cake," he said.

Jessica sniffed, her arms crossing over her chest. "Some stupid thing from the grocery store, probably," she said. "If he'd asked me, I would have made the cake."

"We don't have pan big enough to make cake for this many people," Natasha pointed out.

"So I would have made more than one cake," Jess said. "With sheet cakes, if you need a bigger one, you just take two, stick them together on the tray, and then frost them so that it looks like it's all one thing. If that was actually all one cake, it would probably take _forever_ to bake."

"You've been reading up on this, huh?" Clint asked. 

She shrugged. "A little. I'm... thinking about going to school for it. To be a baker. Or a chef. Culinary school." She looked away as she said it, so that Clint almost missed the last few mumbled words.

"That's actually a really good idea," Clint said. "It's not like people are ever going to not need to eat, and it would be a job that you didn't actually hate, so... yeah. Sounds like a good idea to me."

"Was I asking for your opinion?" Jess asked, the edge in her voice belied by the spark of pleasure that came to life in her eyes. "Anyway, he should have asked me to make the cake, because I'm sure it would be better than that, even if the picture thing is cool."

"I'm sure it would be," Natasha said. "Still, you think that they care?" She made a vague gesture that encompassed the people gathered in the room.

"Probably not," Jessica admitted. "Especially the boys. They'll eat anything."

"I resemble that remark," Clint said indignantly. "I'll tell you how bad it is." He went to go get a piece of cake, because even though Jessica was probably right, it was still cake, and he wasn't sure that there was actually such a thing as bad cake. Despite what he'd said, he brought back a piece for Natasha, relieved that Jessica had wandered away, because he hadn't brought her a piece. He hadn't been sure she would have eaten it if he had, but it was a bit of a landmine not bringing one, so he was glad to avoid the possible confrontation.

"It's not... _bad_ ," he said after a bite.

"It's not _good_ , either," Natasha countered. "Next time, we remind people that Jessica can bake."

"Do you really think she'll go to culinary school?"

"Why not? It makes her happy. She doesn't want to do college."

"Does anyone _want_ to do college?" Clint asked.

Natasha shrugged. "I think some people do. A lot of people, maybe."

"I guess I kind of think of it as where you have to go before you can get on with the rest of your life," Clint admitted. "Like it doesn't even really matter anymore, because going to college isn't necessarily going to get you a better job, and it might actually make it worse because then people will say you're overqualified or whatever." He'd been reading about it as he was doing his college applications, and it had given him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"It's where people can decide what they want to do with their life, sometimes," Natasha said. "Sometimes maybe you think you know what you want to do, but then you take class and you say, 'No, I am wrong, I change my mind.' Or you take another class and say, 'Actually, this I like much better.' But if you know, and you are sure, it is where you learn so that when you are finished you can get job knowing what you need to know."

"That's you," Clint said. 

She cocked her head. "Maybe. I don't know exactly. I have idea, but I will see where it takes me."

"At least you have an idea," Clint said. 

"You have idea," Natasha said. "Maybe you have more than one idea. You have to figure it out. Is not wrong."

"What if I don't, though?"

"Don't what? Figure it out?" She looked at him, really studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "I think you will. If you don't, then we decide what happens next when we get there."

She had a lot of faith in him, and he wished that he shared that. He tried – he'd been trying – because it seemed like pretty much everyone had this idea that he could actually make something of himself, and maybe it was possible that if everyone else thought he could, and he was the only one with doubts, that _he_ was the one who was wrong after all.

He didn't get a lot of time to dwell on it, though (which was probably a good thing), because a second later Loki approached them, an expression somewhere between embarrassment and distaste battling what appeared to be the barest hints of a smile for possession of his face. He stopped in front of them, and an awkward second or two ticked by while they all just stood there staring at each other.

It was Natasha who finally spoke. "Are you having good time?" she asked.

"Yes," Loki said. "Yes, I'm having a very good time. I... I was certainly surprised."

"You can thank Sam for that," Clint said. "It was mostly his idea."

"So I've been told," Loki said. "And I did thank him. I came to," he cleared his throat again, then straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "I came to thank you, as well, for the parts that you played in getting this together. I've never had anyone – any of my peers, I should say – put together a party for me. This has been amazing, and a great way to celebrate not only my birthday but the musical and my – our – last year. So thank you."

"You are welcome," Natasha said.

"Yeah," Clint said, when she nudged him, hopefully not so obviously that Loki noticed. "You're welcome." Loki nodded, then started to turn away, presumably to go talk to people that he actually liked. Clint wasn't sure why, but he stopped him. "Hey." Loki turned back and looked at him. "Did you get hold of Tony?"

For a second the dark-haired boy looked confused, then his expression cleared to a careful blank, a mask very like the one Natasha had worn all the time around other people when Clint met her. "I did," he said.

"Did you get what you were looking for?" Clint pressed.

"It's a work in progress," Loki said. 

"Well, good luck with it," Clint said, because he knew that he wasn't going to get anything more out of him, and he wasn't sure why he'd asked in the first place. Curiosity and the cat and all that, he guessed, although he'd never really thought of himself as a cat. He was more of a dog person, he thought. Loyal and sometimes a little bit (and sometimes a lot) stupid.

"Thank you," Loki said again, stiffly, and walked away, a little more hurriedly than he might have otherwise, probably worried that Clint was going to call him back again if he didn't get out of earshot. With the noise of the music that was playing, and all of the conversation, it didn't take long.

"What he needs from Tony?" Natasha asked. 

"I don't know," Clint said, then switched to sign. _He just asked me for Tony's email address the other day, and then I pointed out that he probably already had it because he had probably received emails from Tony – invitations and whatever – in the past. Once I said that, he shut down. I probably shouldn't have pointed out the really obvious answer._

_You don't make a very good spy,_ Natasha agreed. 

_If he ever asks you for anything, you can show me how it's done,_ Clint replied.

_I will._ She smiled at him, then pulled him over to a little table and sat down. _Do you have any idea what it might be that's a 'work in progress'?_

_None,_ Clint admitted. _I assume he needs help building something, or help finding some kind of information. Those are the two things that Tony seems to be best at._

Natasha nodded. She knew that from first-hand experience. After all, it was Tony who had (accidentally?) hacked into the FBI for her. If anyone needed information that they didn't technically have a right to, he was the one to go to. She studied the painted-on grain of the table, and then suddenly looked up. _I have an idea,_ she said.

_What?_ , Clint asked.

_An idea of what he might be asking Tony for._

_What?_ , he asked again.

_His parents. If he's eighteen, he can legally look for them, right?_

_Yes,_ Clint said. _I'm pretty sure, anyway._

_But what if he looks and he doesn't find what he's looking for. Or it's not fast enough for him. Tony could get into the records._

_Do you think Loki knows that, though?_

Natasha considered. _I don't know. It's possible. I don't know what Tony has said about what he helped me with. I don't think he said – or even knows – anything specific, but he's smart, and he may have put together the pieces, and Loki's not stupid, either. It wasn't the best-kept secret that things in my life got pretty crazy, and that the authorities were involved. He may have figured out that somehow Tony had gotten information to help me._

_That's true,_ Clint said. It wasn't like they'd been able to police every conversation that everyone had had. He trusted that his friends wouldn't have said anything that violated Natasha's privacy, that gave away her secrets, but that didn't mean that bits and pieces of the process hadn't slipped out. And like she'd said, Loki wasn't stupid. Quite the opposite. It was just that his kind of smart lent itself most easily to Evil Overlord.

_I hope whatever he's doing doesn't get either of them in trouble,_ Natasha said.

Clint looked at her. _Even Loki._

She shrugged. _A person deserves to have his past._

Clint shrugged too. Deserved, maybe. But when he found it, would he wish he hadn't?


	24. Chapter 24

The sight of Pepper with her forehead leaned against a wall, her arms wrapped around herself (probably with her clipboard clutched to her chest, but Clint couldn't really see to be sure) wasn't a particularly reassuring one. There was no way that she was actually _doing_ something standing there like that, because what the hell could she possibly be doing?

He nudged Bobbi with his elbow, and when she glanced over her started to sign, then realized his mistake. He'd forgotten for a second that she wasn't Natasha. Not that he thought of them as being particularly similar; it was just that when he had a girl beside him, it was nearly always Nat... although as they got closer to the musical, he felt like he saw a lot more of Bobbi than of his best friend, just because she was busy doing her thing, and he was busy doing his.

"Do you think we should, uh, do something about that?" he asked, pointing discreetly toward where he'd seen Pepper, not wanting to call attention too much attention to it in case one of the members of the crew noticed him gesturing and got curious.

Bobbi leaned forward a little to get a better look, her eyebrows going up and her forehead furrowing. "Probably," she admitted after a few seconds ticked by with no sign at all of movement from the student director. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"With...?" _Shit._ He'd kind of hoped that once he pointed it out, Bobbi would take it upon herself to go check on Pepper and leave him out of it, but of course he didn't have that kind of luck, did he? And he _had_ said 'we', which was his first mistake. Or maybe his first mistake was being observant. Life would probably be a lot easier if he was oblivious.

"You know her better than I do," Bobbi said. 

"I don't really know her that well," Clint said. "I've known her _longer_ but I wouldn't necessarily say that I know her _better._ "

"You're not getting out of this, Barton, so come on. And try to be subtle."

"Subtle is my middle name," Clint said. 

"Clint Subtle Barton? Man, your parents must have hated you." 

Clint knew that she meant it as a joke, but he couldn't make himself laugh, or even smile, and the corner of her mouth that had quirked up settled back down before making its way fully to a smile. He pushed himself up, checking in on one of the kids who was working on a bit of construction so that it looked like he was just making the rounds like he usually did, before slipping into the wings, Bobbi a step behind him.

"I hope no one sees and thinks we're sneaking back here to make out," Clint said. "I don't want my girlfriend to have to beat you up."

Bobbi just rolled her eyes and kept walking, stopping a few steps away from where Pepper still stood. "Hey. Are you okay?"

There was no answer, or at least not one that Clint could hear. He stepped past Bobbi, because if they were going to have this conversation (if it became a conversation at all) and she didn't want it to be held at a volume that might be overheard by anyone nearby, he was going to have to close the distance, and preferably get into a position where he could see Pepper's lips, although that seemed unlikely because she was still facing the wall. "You've been back here for a while," he said. "I didn't know if you were checking on something or, or what, but if you need any help with anything, I can—"

Pepper finally turned, and her cheeks were flushed, her eyes red-rimmed. She wiped away a tear that had gathered in the corner of her eye before it had a chance to fall. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, pulling the clipboard to her chest tighter and taking several hitching breaths. "I... I think..."

"You don't look so good," Clint said, then realized that was probably the wrong thing to say, because girls didn't like being told that they didn't look good, even when they looked horrible, and he didn't imagine Pepper, who always tried so hard to look as if she had everything together and nothing bothered her, would be an exception. 

"I don't feel so good," Pepper mumbled, or at least he was pretty sure that's what she said. 

"Are you sick?" he asked. 

"I... can't breathe," she gasped, and that would explain the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "My h-head is spinning and..."

Finally Bobbi stepped in. "Here," she said, leading her over to the metal steps that led up to the tiny catwalk. "Come sit over here." She helped her settle down and pried the clipboard from her hands, setting it aside. "Just take a deep breath," she said. "In, then out."

"Should we get the nurse?" Clint asked, but Bobbi didn't respond.

"Do you feel nauseous?" she asked. "Do you feel like you have a fever?"

"I... no. Yes. I don't... my chest hurts," Pepper said. "It feels like someone is squeezing and..."

"I should get the nurse," Clint said, but Bobbi held her up her hand to stop him, and he had no doubt that if he'd tried to move, she would have caught him and held him in place if she had to. 

"What if... what if I'm...?"

"Having a heart attack?" Bobbi asked. "I don't think you are, and if anyone would know what it feels like, it would be me." She smiled wryly and pushed Pepper's bangs back from her forehead, pressing the inside of her wrist there. "I don't think you have a fever. I think you're just stressed out, and you're probably having a panic attack. If you want, we can take you to an urgent care place to have you checked out, just in case, but I'm pretty sure you just need to take a break."

"I can't!" Pepper said, looking at her with wild eyes. "I can't take a break! All we've had is breaks, and..." She pressed her hand to her chest, and now even Clint could hear her labored breathing, and he could see the way that her hand shook. 

"Hey, hey," Bobbi said, crouching in front of Pepper and taking her free hand. "We've had a few days off because of the snow," she said. "So what? We still have over a month to get things together, and I know for a fact that the sets are actually a little bit ahead of schedule, even with the days off, and even if we were behind we're willing to put in the hours to make sure things get done, and I have no doubt that everyone else would be willing to do that, too. Half the cast already knew most of their 'lines' before they ever even started, so it's just a matter of learning the right harmonies, and I'm sure that that's well in hand. If I remember correctly, Natasha actually brought home some of the costumes over the weekend so that she could work on them, and since she was snowed in on Monday, that actually gave her an extra day, and Jessica is on her crew, too, so they could get twice as much done that way. You're stressing out, and I won't say it's over nothing, but I think you're making it a much bigger deal in your head than it actually is in reality."

Pepper shook her head. "No, no, you don't understand."

"You're right," Clint said, when Bobbi didn't say anything. "We don't understand, but maybe you could explain it to us."

"I _can't_!" Pepper said. "I can't _explain_ , I just know that... that things are all going to fall apart and it's going to be my fault and—"

"I'm pretty sure that's what a therapist would call catastrophic thinking," Clint said. "I mean, I'm not an expert, but I've spent an hour or two... hundred... in a shrink's office – well, social worker, and I guess psychologist – in the past, and one of the things that they try to teach you when you feel like the world is crashing down around you is that..." But he couldn't remember, because he hadn't really been paying attention, and hell, he'd never really told his social worker much of anything, and maybe he was just remembering something that he'd read or seen on TV. "Anyway, it means that when things are bad, or even just one thing is bad, that _everything_ is bad, and everything will _continue_ to be bad, and things will _never_ get better, and the point is, it's not, and they won't, and it's all just bullshit that your brain is telling you because it's gotten out of whack because of stress. Basically."

"So you're saying I'm crazy?" Pepper asked.

"No," Clint said. "I'm saying that you try to do everything and be everything and you want to control everything and the weather is out of your control and it's messing with things that are important to you and so it's messing with your head. That's not crazy. People do it all the time. It's just... I think maybe you beat yourself up with it a little bit more than most people do. Because you _care_ more than other people do about pretty much everything."

"Why don't we get back to the breathing?" Bobbi suggested. "It won't fix everything, but having oxygen for your brain and body to run on will definitely help." She took Pepper's other hand and looked her right in the eye, breathing in slowly, and breathing out, waiting for Pepper to do the same. 

After a minute or two, Pepper did actually seem a little bit calmer. "Thank you," she said. "I just... I don't want to mess this up. I want it to be good. I want to... my parents don't think it's important. They say that of course I want to look well-rounded on my transcripts for colleges, but I've gotten in now so that doesn't matter anymore, and anyway I could have just done it for a year or two and then let it go and done something else more worthwhile, and they don't understand that I _like_ it, that it's something that all of my friends are involved in – even if I had to drag them kicking and screaming into it – and I'm not going to give up on one of the things that I really enjoy to add something else to my transcript that I don't care as much about. It's like... so many clubs, you join and all it is is talk and nothing ever really happens, you never really _do_ anything, maybe have a fundraiser or something, but at the end of the year you have nothing to show for it. This... you've got something that's... well, hopefully spectacular. Something that hundreds of people will see and maybe, if you get it right, talk about for years to come."

"You shouldn't ever have to give up something that you care about," Bobbi said, and there was something fierce in your expression. "Don't let other people pressure you into doing something you don't want to do, especially if it's at the expense of something that you _do_ want."

"They never even came to the show last year," Pepper said. "Or the year before that. I don't know if they'll come this year, but... I guess I'm hoping that even if they don't, maybe one of their friends will, and then they'll talk about it to my parents, about how great it was, and my parents will feel like complete – complete _assholes_ for not supporting me in it."

Bobbi smiled, but there was something sharp in her expression. "I hope they do come, and they see it for themselves so they regret the years that they didn't come," she said, and Clint thought he sensed just a hint of bitterness in her tone. 

"I guess I should get myself together," Pepper said, "and go check on things. I was going to see where everyone was, but then I just... I looked at the list and it was just overwhelming."

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Clint asked. 

Pepper shook her head. "No. I think you've done enough. Knowing that you're ahead of schedule, that's... reassuring. It's good to hear. Good to know."

"And under budget," Clint said. "Bobbi didn't mention it, but we're under budget, because there was this guy down the street who was cleaning out his garage, and he had all of this old furniture that I guess his ex-wife had gathered, just junky old stuff that she claimed she was going to fix up and sell on Etsy or something, but she never did, and when she moved out she just left it behind and he said that if we could haul it away we could have it all for free, so we did and that's pretty much the barricade right there for nothing."

Pepper's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Really. When we were loading the truck he said that he wasn't sure which he was happier about, the fact that his wife was gone or the furniture." He grinned.

Pepper shook her head, obviously not sure whether to laugh. "I guess it worked out for both of us," she said. "I hope you said thank you."

Clint laughed. "Yes, Mom, I did."

Pepper scowled at him, then smiled. "Good boy. Now get back to work. I'm going to check on the others."  
"Yes, Mom," Clint said again, and dodged before Pepper could grab her clipboard and attack him with it. He wasn't sure Bobbi would have come to his defense if she had. She would probably think he deserved it. It was possible she wouldn't be wrong.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IEP = Individualized Education Program

When Clint arrived in his last class of the day, he was surprised to be handed a pass for the social worker's office. It wasn't the usual day, or the usual time, for a meeting, so why was he being called there? He wracked his brain for something that he'd done wrong, anything he might have said that might have been a red flag... and drew a blank. And if he was in trouble, wouldn't he be called to Principal Fury's office? Or maybe Vice Principal Hill's, considering his relationship with Principal Fury. Technically, officially, it was only Natasha and Jessica that he couldn't really be in the one responsible for as a principal in school, but he wondered if, given the circumstances, he might get caught up in that, too, since he was at that house almost as much as he was at his own.

Could it have something to do with college applications? But that would be the guidance counselor, wouldn't it? Had something gone wrong at home?

"I suggest," his teacher said dryly, "that you go to the office _now_."

"Right. Uh." Clint glanced down at the pass in his hands. "Yeah. See you later. Maybe."

The final bell had already rung, so the halls were basically empty, and the old urge to bolt for one of the doors and escape while there was no one around to witness it was tempting. But things had changed since then; pretty much _everything_ in his life had changed since then, and running away wasn't the answer. You had to deal with the shit that life dealt you. You couldn't just pick up and move on to try and escape it. It didn't work, anyway. It would always come back to haunt you, or bite you in the ass, eventually.

He pushed open the door to the social worker's office and found Mr. Coulson at his desk, a young-ish (younger than Mr. Coulson, anyway) woman sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk. They both looked up, so Clint gave an awkward wave. "You, uh, sent me a pass?"

"Yes," Mr. Coulson said. "I would have waited until after school, but Ms. Kelly has somewhere she has to be, and I know you've got the musical that you're working on pretty much every day at this point, so this was really the only time. I assume you're not overly put out about having to miss class?"

"No," Clint said. "Not overly." Not at all, really. After all, he'd already done his applications, so what did grades matter at this point? (Except apparently they still did, just maybe a little less, according to Bobbi. She'd said that if you had borderline or even good grades on your application, and they accepted you, but then suddenly your grades tanked, some schools might take your acceptance back. Or if you'd been put on a wait list, it would hurt your chances of actually being admitted. Even so, missing one day wasn't going to kill him.)

"Good. Let me introduce you to Ms. Kelly, the social worker at Shield Elementary."

The woman stood up and offered her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said. 

Clint took her hand, shook it. "Nice to meet you too," he said, as it dawned on him why she was here... probably. It had to be about Lewis, right? Mr. Coulson had said that she might want to meet with him. So this meant that 'might' had turned to 'did' and here she was. Somehow, he hadn't expected it to ever amount to anything.

"Ms. Kelly has been working with Lewis for the past few weeks, and talking to his teachers, and his parents, and she wanted the chance to speak to you as well. Why don't you go into the other room where you can sit more comfortably?"

"Right," Clint said. "Sure." When he went into the meeting room in the back, though, it felt strange without there being anyone else there. He didn't sit on the couch where he usually did, because it would have felt wrong without Natasha beside him. So he sat in another chair, and Ms. Kelly sat across from him, close but not too close, making sure that he could easily view her face. Either Mr. Coulson had briefed her, or she'd figured it out on her own. Either way, he was glad he didn't have to bring it up.

She smiled at him, pulled a notebook from her bag and set it on her lap, open to a blank page. "As Mr. Coulson said, I work at Shield Elementary. Prior to him contacting me, I was already aware of the fact that we had a student who was struggling with speech and language issues who was not getting all of the services that he needed, and his file had been flagged more than once for intervention. Unfortunately, things can fall through the cracks, and notes sent home either don't reach the parents or are ignored, and phone calls aren't answered and voice mails not returned and... Well, I'm sure you know how it goes."

He didn't, but he could guess. "I have a question for you," Clint said. 

"Of course," she said. "I'll answer any question that I can."

"Do you have to have permission to help a kid? Like from the parents?"

She smiled. "That's a good question. The answer is yes and no. With younger children it tends to be a bit more touchy, because parents are more apt to feel that you are trying to intervene on how they raise their children, or that their parenting abilities are being questioned. So ideally, you want them in the loop as to what's going on. You also absolutely have to have them involved if you're moving to do anything like an IEP or – you know what an IEP is?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "Individualized Education Plan, for kids who don't quite fit into the usual student mold. Pretty sure I was supposed to have one."

"Supposed to?"

"When I got here, I had been quote-unquote homeschooled, and I basically didn't know sh—anything, and I'd just lost my hearing and I was basically a mess, but I also wasn't particularly cooperative when it came to doing things like an IEP, because I didn't want to be here, didn't plan to stay, and... it's a long story. But I don't think the IEP ever happened, because they actually wanted me involved and I refused to be."

"I see," she said. "In any case, for those types of things, the parent needs to be involved. In many cases, the parent is the one pushing for the IEP, and the powers that be can be resistant, because there are often additional resources required – teacher's aides, setting aside special rooms and extra time for testing, that kind of thing – but sometimes it's the school or teacher pushing and the parent either just along for the ride or resisting."

"Like Lewis."

"I can't really talk about individual cases," Ms. Kelly said cautiously.

"But that's why you're here, isn't it?" Clint asked. "You're here about him. Because I told Mr. Coulson about what I'd seen, and..." He wasn't sure how to finish, so he just let the words hang.

"Yes," she said. "That's why I'm here. But to finish answering your question, we don't _always_ need parental permission to work with a child. I don't need permission to meet with a child if there is a legitimate concern about the child's well-being, whether physical, emotional, or educational. I don't even need permission to meet with the child on a regular basis, although if I do that it's more likely the child will tell their parents, and then things can get hairy, so again, we try to keep parents in the loop as much as we can."

"But what if they don't want to be?" Clint asked. "What if they think that there isn't any problem? Can they say that you're not allowed to meet with their kid?"

"They can say it," Ms. Kelly said, "and whenever possible we will respect the parents' wishes. But we also have a responsibility to make sure that the child is set up to get the most of the educational environment, and if they are dealing with things that keep them from being able to fully participate in that environment, it is our responsibility to do what we can to alleviate that."

"Right," Clint said. "So yes and no."

"Exactly."

"What about things like speech therapy?" he asked. 

"Because that can actually take the child out of class, it's a bit trickier," Ms. Kelly said. "Because even though we feel that we are addressing a need that the child has, trying to correct something that keeps them from fully participating in the learning environment, parents can argue that taking them out of class will cause them to miss out on classroom activities. So it's sort of a catch-22 there. Some parents know that there's an issue, and arrange for speech therapy to occur outside of school hours, so they get both needs met, but some parents don't have the desire, or the time, to do that."

"So if they say that they don't want their kid taken out of class because they might miss something, and they won't do anything outside of the school, then what? Then the kid just has to grow up not being able to talk so that anyone can understand him?" Clint shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense. Like, there's no way that he speaks more clearly at home – or maybe there's a little chance, but not a big one – and maybe they've learned to understand him better, but they can't think he's just going to grow out of it."

"They _can_ think that," Ms. Kelly said. "They can, and they often do. In some cases, they're correct. In other cases, although the speech impediment may continue into adulthood, it's not so significant that it causes any true interference in the person's day-to-day life. We've all heard adults who have lisps, for example, and it really isn't a big deal. But in some cases, you're absolutely right. They're not going to grow out of it without intervention, and for some conditions that intervention takes quite a bit of time, and the earlier it's started, the better the outcome."

"Have you managed to talk to them at all?" Clint asked. "I know you're not supposed to tell me, but it seems kind of pointless to be here if you can't actually talk about it. I mean, it seems pretty pointless to me."

Ms. Kelly sighed. "I know. If you were an adult, it—"

"I _am_ an adult, technically," Clint said. 

"A professional," she amended. "Right now you're just a student... but you're a student who may have already done more for Lewis than anyone else has been able to, without even... well, I shouldn't say without even trying, because I'm sure that you put a lot of time and effort into it, but you didn't have any professional training, you weren't doing a job. You just did it because it seemed like the right thing to do."

"So are you going to answer my question or not?"

"We haven't been able to maintain contact with his parents, no. We've spoken to them once or twice, but we'll get so far, and then the ball will be dropped while it's in their court."

"And you think I can help with that?" Clint asked. Because that was the thing, wasn't it? He still wasn't sure what the social worker wanted with him, how she thought that she could help. "Because I can't. His father hates me. It's because of me that Lewis isn't going to tutoring anymore, because he got upset when I told him it was my last day there, because my volunteer hours for Civics were done. He flipped out and ran off, and I chased him down and I was talking to him alone in a hallway, and that's where his father and the other tutors and whoever found us, and... it got ugly. He made it ugly. I wasn't doing anything. I was hugging the kid."

The social worker's eyebrows went up. "Did he accuse you of doing anything... inappropriate?" she asked. "Did he threaten to?"

Clint thought back, then shrugged. "I don't remember. I remember him accusing me of trying to make his kid handicapped. That's what I remember. And I'm pretty sure I told him that the kid – Lewis – already _was_ handicapped, and I was trying to help. And I promised – I'd already promised – that I would come back, that I would be there to help Lewis, but he hasn't been back."

"So you haven't seen him since you last spoke to Mr. Coulson?"

"No." He frowned. "Why? Did you think I had?"

"No," she said. "But I'd hoped."

"Well I haven't." He crossed his arms, feeling defensive even though there wasn't any reason to. She wasn't accusing him of anything, of doing something wrong or of not doing something he should have. At least she wasn't accusing him out loud. Maybe in her head she was, or maybe that was just his own thoughts, bouncing around like they had been for months, telling him all of the ways that he'd handled things wrong, all of the things he should and shouldn't have said and done. Like if he just hadn't told Lewis that it was his last day, if he'd just stopped showing up... at least the kid would still be getting help. 

Except who would have had the patience to work with him? And how upset would Lewis have been, if he'd just disappeared like that? The last thing that kid needed was someone else just giving up on him, or seeming to, and would that be how he saw it? 

"So what do you want from me?" Clint asked. "There's nothing I can do for him at this point, as far as I can tell. I just wanted to make sure that _someone_ was keeping an eye out for him. He deserves a chance, and I don't think he's going to get much of one if someone doesn't step up."

Ms. Kelly smiled, but it was a rather grim one. "What I really wanted to talk to you about was exactly what you did with him, over the summer and then with tutoring. How you helped him. Because I looked at his report cards – when they're in elementary school it's more about the teachers' comments than about the actual grades – from last year, and then from early this year, and I spoke to his teachers, and there was a pretty significant change, at least for a little while. It deteriorated over time, but most steeply since winter break."

"I just gave him a way to make himself understood... at least by me. Me and Natasha, I guess, so two people at camp, although others were starting to pick up bits and pieces by the end of the summer."

"How did you do that?" Ms. Kelly asked.

"You really don't know?" Clint asked. Hadn't he told Mr. Coulson? Hadn't Mr. Coulson told her? 

"I want you to tell me," she said. "If you would."

"I taught him to sign," Clint said. "Not... Not all of the grammar of ASL and all of that, not the whole language and every word, but I taught him enough that when he was talking he could at least sign key words in the sentence, which helped me fill in the gaps of what he was saying, make sense of the sounds. By the end of the summer, he was having a lot fewer temper tantrums, because even though it wasn't perfect and even though he still had to repeat himself, by the end of the summer I might only have to have him say something twice before I got the gist of it, instead of a dozen times and still be guessing that I was right."

"And you thought of that all on your own?" Ms. Kelly asked. Before he could reply she said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that the way it might have sounded. I only ask because that's actually one of the common interventions with children with disorders like Lewis's, while they're working on making their speech clearer. It cuts down on their frustration, and the frustration of those who are trying to understand them, so that progress tends to be quicker. I didn't know if you'd looked it up or something."

He shook his head. "No. I just... At the beginning of the summer, a lot of the people working at the camp didn't want anything to do with him, because he was difficult to understand, and they were trying to handle the needs of half a dozen campers at a time. And I have an idea what it's like to not be able to understand, even if I can still make myself understood, and I just thought, this kid isn't the problem. He's just a kid, and he just wants people to understand him. It's not his fault it's so difficult for him. And it occurred to me that maybe if I could actually _see_ his words, well, wouldn't that make both of our lives easier?"

"You said that you had just become deaf when you started high school?"

Clint nodded. "Yeah. It's... yeah." 

"But obviously you're not completely deaf, because we're able to have this conversation without an interpreter."

"Yeah. I have hearing aids, and they work pretty well most of the time – especially when I'm only talking to one person in a quiet place – but we weren't sure that was going to be the case after it first happened."

"So they taught you sign language?"

Clint shook his head. He wasn't sure what 'they' she was referring to, and it wasn't the case no matter what she meant. "I taught myself," he said. "And it wasn't until later."

Ms. Kelly, whose eyebrows had shot up when he said that he'd taught himself, tilted her head slightly. "Do you mind explaining?"

He shrugged. "No. The accident that damaged my ears happened pretty early in the summer. They got me out of the hospital and into a foster home – well, into a group home first and then into a foster home – and I did summer school and all of that to try to get me at least a little caught up. I'm still a year behind where I should be, age-wise. But that was all just relying on my hearing aids. Like I said, I pretty much refused the whole IEP thing. It wasn't until November my sophomore year – which was my first year – that I learned to sign."

"Why?" she asked. "What changed?"

"I met my best friend. It's Mr. Coulson's fault." He smiled a little, glancing towards the door where the social worker almost certainly sat, waiting for them to be done. "A new girl started school late, and he decided that he wanted to play matchmaker with the misfits and have me help her out, show her around. She was from Russia – I mean, I guess she still _is_ from Russia – but she had only just gotten here and she didn't know her way around, didn't know anyone, didn't know English... well, I shouldn't say she didn't know English that well because she understood it pretty da—rn well, but she didn't speak it that well? Out loud. Anyway, he matched us up and at first we kind of both didn't want anything to do with it, but then... well, I was a pissed off kid stuck in a situation unlike anything I'd ever dealt with him my life – school, structure, all that – who had suddenly lost his hearing and the whole world stopped making sense, and she was a pissed off kid stuck in a situation unlike anything she'd ever deal with – new home, new culture, new language – and the whole world stopped making sense and... We didn't have anyone else, and no one understood us except each other, on a deep-down gut level."

Clint looked at her, having looked away as he was talking, remembering those early days and how every day, every minute had felt like a fight. "But we didn't _understand_ each other all the time. I was still adjusting to the way the world sounded with the hearing aids, and her accent was... thick. And her words didn't always come out in the right order, which made it harder for me to fill in the blanks when the blanks weren't where they were supposed to be, and it frustrated her because she would want to say something and it would get garbled or she just wouldn't have the right words, and then... they'd mentioned sign language to me when I was in the hospital, that if my hearing didn't come back, that it was an option, and so we were struggling and it occurred to me – we would learn to sign. We would be learning together, both of us starting learning a new language from scratch, so it wouldn't be just her struggling to find the right word, and I could _see_ what she was saying so her accent wouldn't be an issue. We convinced Mr. Coulson to get us permission to take time from school to do it, like an independent study, and now I think we know how to sign as well as we speak, although maybe someone whose known the language all their life would disagree, but for us sometimes it's easier for _both_ of us to say what we mean in sign, you know? So that's why I learned to sign."

"That's quite a story," Ms. Kelly said. "I'm impressed."

"You do what you have to do," Clint said with a shrug. "Just like I did with Lewis."

"Do you mind if I use your story?" Ms. Kelly asked. "Not necessarily all of the details, but I feel as if it might help illustrate to Lewis's parents, if we can get them to sit down and talk to us, the benefits of allowing him to pursue signing along with speech therapy, to help fill in the blanks."

"I wouldn't mention it's _my_ story," Clint said. "But yeah, I guess. If you want." He thought maybe he should ask Natasha first, but it wasn't like he'd given any of the details of why she'd had more important things on her mind than beating English into submission when she'd first arrived. He would tell her later, and if she really objected, he would just tell Mr. Coulson to tell Ms. Kelly that he took it back, she couldn't use it after all. But he didn't think Natasha would really mind. At least he hoped that she wouldn't.

"Thank you. And thank you for your time today. I know it may seem to you like this probably hasn't helped much, but it's at least helped me get an understanding of why there was such an improvement with Lewis early in the year, and why he may have backslid, and a technique that may help to get him back to where he needs to be, since it's worked in the past with him specifically, as well as with other kids. So I really do appreciate it."

"No problem," Clint said. "Just hope his parents actually let you help."

"I'll let you know if there is any progress if I can," Ms. Kelly said. She stood up and offered her hand, and Clint took it. "Have a great day, and good luck in the future. You should consider working with kids in the future. I think you might have a real talent for it."

Clint smiled, feeling awkward. "Thanks," he said. "Have a good day." He stepped past her out the door, even though it was probably rude, and left the office with a quick wave to Mr. Coulson. He didn't really feel like talking anymore, or at least not to them. There was only one person he wanted to talk to, and he knew exactly where to find her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to any teachers, social workers, or other people who work in schools for any errors I made regarding IEPs, confidentiality, and all of that. I'm sure that I got it all wrong... call it artistic license?


	26. Chapter 26

"Hey Steve," Clint said, looking up from his clipboard. It was hard to believe that they were less than a month from the opening of the show. Things were really starting to come together, ahead of schedule even, despite all of the snow days and various bumps in the road. Pepper hadn't had a meltdown in days, although she was walking around with a wary look, like she was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. In a way, they all were, because it seemed impossible that a show of this magnitude could actually go up this easily.

"Don't mind him," Peggy said as Steve walked right past without even acknowledging Clint. "He's a bit distracted this morning."

Clint turned to look at her. "Anything wrong?"

She shrugged. "Better if you asked him." Which seemed like a strange answer, because if there was something that was wrong, wouldn't she know about it? And if she didn't, wouldn't she be worried, too? But she didn't _seem_ particularly worried, but then maybe she was just really good at hiding it.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Clint asked.

"You can get your crew and help us with getting things in place," she said. Some of the larger pieces had had to be painted off site, and now they were finally being brought to the school. 

"Right," Clint said, and went to find any members of his crew that weren't in the middle of something. He hadn't really set anyone any particular tasks yet, so he was able to round up pretty much everyone and they had everything loaded into the theater in short order. Once that was done, he got people going, partnered with members of the painting crew to make sure that nothing got damaged in the process of integrating the new pieces with the rest of the set.

Finally the only thing left to do was hanging up the scrim, which would have words and images projected onto it at various points during the show. One of the curtain poles was lowered from the fly space, and they all lined up along its length to tie the scrim on, watching it carefully as it was raised to make sure that it didn't get bunched up or tangled. 

"I guess we can call it a day," Clint said, looking down at his list. "Everyone have a good weekend."

"You're getting good at this," Bobbi said. "Do you need me to do anything? Because I kind of need to be somewhere... well, ten minutes from now, and it's fifteen minutes away."

"Go," Clint said. "You should have told me. You could have left early."

"I didn't want to—" Bobbi started, but Clint interrupted.

"Go!" he repeated. "Don't be late!"

She went. He began to do his final check on things, making sure that the power tools were locked up in the little room backstage where things like that were kept for safekeeping, and that there weren't any screws, nails, splinters, etc. left on the stage where they might prove a hazard for the actors. He reached for a broom, but another hand closed around it before he could snag it. 

"I've got it," Steve said. "You can go home if you want to."

Clint shrugged. "I like to make sure everything's done before I leave," he said. "I'm pretty sure that's somewhere in my job description."

Steve smiled crookedly. "What? You don't trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," Clint said. "It's just kind of become a habit, I guess. I like to be the last one out. That way I know no one can mess anything up after I leave."

"It's just sweeping," Steve said. "But you can supervise if you want to." There was something forced in his smile, and again Clint wondered what was going on. 

He remembered what Peggy had said, and really considered the exact words. 'It's better if you ask him.' Which meant that yes, something was wrong, and yes, she knew about it, but she felt like it wasn't hers to talk about. Which was a feeling that he was pretty well acquainted with, after years of being with Natasha, and then being friends with Jess, who, if anything, kept things even tighter to her chest, or maybe it was just in a different, more confrontational way. Really, they all had secrets, but some were better kept than others. 

He waited until Steve was done sweeping, because it would be difficult (bordering on impossible) for him to have a conversation with him in this big open space where sound could easily get lost, and with Steve pushing a broom back and forth so that his mouth was unlikely to be visible most of the time. Once the broom was back in the storage room, he slid his key (because yeah, they'd trusted him with a key, although he'd have to return it once the show was over and the sets were taken apart) into the lock and twisted it, testing the knob to make sure that it had worked before turning to Steve.

"You wanna, uh, go get some lunch or something?" Clint asked.

Steve's eyebrows shot up. "You're not going out with Natasha?" he asked.

"She's got a major project that she's working on this weekend – a group project, which is apparently a fate worse than life in a Siberian gulag – and she had to go deal with that this afternoon. I'll probably see her tonight, since she'll probably need to be talked out of killing someone." He shrugged. "So I'm free."

"Don't you have homework to do?"

"Nothing major," Clint said. "Some reading for English, finish an outline for History, and some math."

"That sounds like quite a bit," Steve said.

"It's not," Clint said. "But if you don't want to have lunch with me, you can just say no. I won't be offended." Disappointed, if he was being honest with himself, but he wouldn't be offended.

"Peggy—" Steve started, then stopped himself. "Would you be able to drive me home after?" he asked. "Peggy and I came together, and she has to go pick up Sharon soon, but if you can drive me home, then sure."

"I can drive you," Clint said. 

"Okay. I'll just need to let her know then," Steve said, grabbing his coat. 

Clint shrugged on his own jacket and they went outside, where Peggy was already waiting, jingling the keys to the truck they'd used for transport. "We need to get this back," she said. 

"Can you do it?" Steve asked. "Clint invited me to go out to lunch with him, but—"

"Of course," she said. "Go ahead. My car is in their lot anyway, so I'll just return it and head out to pick up the wee one, and I'll see you later." She smiled and waved as she climbed up into the truck's cab, and it roared to life.

Clint slid into the driver's seat of his own car, reaching across to unlock the passenger side door. "It takes a few minutes to warm up," he apologized as Steve held his hands up to the vents. "It'll probably take until we get where we're going. That's how it usually works, anyway." He shrugged, flashing a sheepish smile. "It's a good car, though."

"I doubt Tony would have given you one that wasn't," Steve said. "You could always mention the heat to him. I'm sure he could tweak it." The sparkle in his eye that accompanied the badly suppressed smile seemed more like him, and maybe whatever had been bothering him in the morning had been a passing thing.

"Yeah, I'd like to not have my skin melted off," Clint joked in return. "Anywhere in particular you want to go?"

"I have a craving for French fries," Steve said. "We've been on kind of a health kick lately, trying to make sure we get lots of vitamins and green stuff in our diets while everything is so cold and gray, but sometimes you just want some good old-fashioned grease."

"Fries it is," Clint said, heading to a burger joint that he hoped wouldn't be too crowded or noisy at this time of day. If there wasn't a sports game – what sport was even in season at this point? Football had ended and baseball hadn't started, so... basketball maybe? – happening, it would probably be all right. 

He parked and they made their way through the parking lot carefully. Although it wasn't actually as cold as it had been today, with temperatures managing to claw their way to up just above freezing, one couldn't always be completely sure whether the wet-looking patch on the ground was actually just wet, or whether it was very clear ice, waiting to send him flying.

They got a booth in the corner, thankfully far enough away from a noisy group of kids and their parents that Clint thought they stood a chance of being able to have a conversation... if he could actually figure out how to bring up anything. He wasn't completely sure he wanted to, or that he should... but then maybe Steve would bring it up himself. They ordered, and mostly talked about the musical until after their food arrived. There was a lull in the conversation as they both took a few bites, but Steve seemed to grow more distant as the quiet stretched, and the quieter he got the more worried he seemed, and finally it just didn't seem right to leave him to his thoughts all alone like that.

"So," Clint said. "Uh... how's... things?"

"Things?" Steve looked back at him, blinking like he'd just had a camera go off in his face. "Things are fine, I guess. Kind of stressful. Waiting to hear back from colleges and all that." 

"That's right," Clint said. "You're applying to transfer."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "I guess it's probably a little less stressful for me than for you, because I'll at least already have one degree that I can fall back on... for whatever good an Associate's Degree will do you. You have to see if you've gotten in to anywhere in the first place." 

Clint wasn't sure what his face did, but whatever it was, it was enough to make Steve look instantly apologetic. "I didn't mean it like that!" he said quickly. "I'm sure that you'll get in to whatever schools you applied to. It's just... I guess I sort of avoided the stress the first time around, because community college will basically take anyone who can pay for it, and I knew that it was just sort of a stepping stone while I got my life and finances together."

"It's okay," Clint said. "I'm kind of trying not to think too much about it. It's out of my hands now, and whatever they decide, they decide... whoever 'they' are. I can't change what I've done up to this point. If I don't get in anywhere, I'll figure something else out. That's what Barton's do." _And when they can't figure anything else out, they drink to forget,_ Clint thought, but he didn't say that part out loud. That wasn't a patch he had any intention of following.

"Do you know what you're going to go for?" Steve asked.

"No," Clint said. "Not yet. I'm going to try to take some different things, see what feels right. Psychology, probably... maybe something with social work or even teaching, although... I don't know if I'd be any good at it. But I don't know that I wouldn't, either, so it's worth at least looking into, right?"

"Definitely," Steve agreed. "I think you could be great at either one. Which reminds me – any updates on Lewis?" 

"I talked to the social worker at his school last week about what I did when I was working with him," Clint said, which wasn't the whole story but it was enough. "I guess they're working on getting in contact with his parents and maybe trying to convince them that it was actually good for him, and wasn't going to 'turn him disabled' or whatever stupid shit is dad said."

"I hope that it works out," Steve said. "He really could use the help, I think. It seemed like he was doing so much better at the end of the summer than at the beginning, and then with the tutoring..."

"Yeah," Clint said, "I know. I guess we'll see. I'll keep you posted."

"Thanks," Steve said. "I appreciate it. I know that I don't know the kid that well, but I still worry."

Clint nodded. "Speaking of kids... Peggy's watching Sharon again?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. It's pretty much every weekend these days, and sometimes after school." He smiled, but again, there was something forced about it. "It's getting to a point where it's..." His voice trailed off, and he looked down at his plate, dragging a french fry through the puddle of ketchup and putting it in his mouth, chewing slowly while he thought, or at least that's what Clint assumed he was doing. "I don't want to say that it's an imposition, because that's not really it. It's not like Peggy minds watching her niece, you know? Family is family, and she's a good kid. It's just that with it happening more and more often, and with shorter and shorter notice but no officially set schedule... it's getting hard for Peggy to plan her life. Like she did applications for school, to transfer, but there were schools that she just automatically ruled out because they were too far away. There were some that she applied for that aren't in this area, schools that she really wants to go to and that I think she'll get into, but... I don't know if she'll actually do it. I don't know if she'll go somewhere where she won't be available to help her sister out."

"Or to help Sharon out," Clint said. "It's more about her than her sister, isn't it?"

Steve looked at him, and for a second it seemed like he was almost... impressed. "You've got it exactly right," he said. "If it was just her sister needing help with things – groceries, errands, lending her gas money, things like that – Peggy would say no if she had to. But if she doesn't watch Sharon when her sister asks her to, she doesn't know who will, and she doesn't trust anyone else that her sister would find. Doesn't trust to the point that I think she's actually afraid of who her sister might leave Sharon in the care of if she doesn't take her... or that her sister might just leave her alone."

"Wow," Clint said. "That's... pretty intense."

"It is," Steve agreed. "We're actually kind of wondering if that hasn't happened before. Not for long periods of time, or often, but... just things that Sharon has said, and the way she acts sometimes, when her mom is late to pick her up and Peggy can't get her on the phone, asking over and over again if she can stay, she'll be quiet, she won't be any trouble, but please can she stay? Like we're going to just drop her off to fend for herself when we don't know where her mom is."

A knot formed in Clint's stomach, and he took a sip of his soda, trying ease it. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"Peggy is... we've talked about... keeping her," Steve said, his voice dropping. "Like... for good. Or at least for a while. Talking to her sister and getting legal guardianship of Sharon until she can get her life together and get to a place where she can actually have time for her."

"And you're okay with that?" Clint asked. "And don't say that of course you're okay with it, because she's a little kid and she needs someone to look out for her and where else is she going to go and all of that. I mean really, deep down, are you okay with it? Are you ready to be this young and still in school and having to be a, a dad, too?"

"I don't know," Steve said. "I mean I don't know if I'm ready, but... if it happens, if that's what Peggy decides that she wants to do, I'm not planning on going anywhere. I love Peggy, and I love Sharon, and yes, it will be hard, it will make everything harder, but I've never been afraid of hard."

Clint looked at him for a minute, like if he just looked hard enough, he could read what was written on Steve's mind. But the fact was, he didn't lie. He wouldn't. Not unless he didn't know that he was lying, but Clint was pretty sure that this wasn't a case where he'd told himself that he was okay with something that he really wasn't so many times that he'd managed to make himself believe it. No, Steve would step up and be a father if he had to be. 

"Do you _want_ that to be what she decides?" he asked.

Again, the silence stretched. "Honestly?" Steve said. "I think it would be the best thing. For Peggy, because then she wouldn't have to worry about what was happening when Sharon wasn't in her care, and for Sharon because she would have a stable home environment, and for her sister because it would give her the time and the breathing room to figure things out... and if she never does, at least she won't be damaging her daughter in the process."

"And for you?"

"For me... I just like the idea of having a family again."

"Have you told Peggy that?" Clint asked.

"Yes," Steve said. "She still hasn't decided anything for certain. I think she's waiting to see where she's gets in for school. If it's local, and I'm staying local, we might just leave things the way they are, not rock the boat, because even though it seems like a good idea all the way around, we can't be positive her sister will agree. But if she gets into a program that's not around here... then that changes things. Because she's going to want to take Sharon with her, and that might mean out of the area, or even out of the state. But we won't know for sure until we hear from the schools."

"Well, whatever you decide," Clint said. "Good luck to both of you."

"Thanks," Steve said. "And thanks for lunch."

Clint raised an eyebrow at him. "You say that like you think I'm the one paying."


	27. Chapter 27

It was too dark to be morning, so why was Natasha sitting up? Clint blinked, squinted, blinked again until his eyes cleared and he was able to see the time on the clock. 2:52 am. He touched Natasha's arm and signed, _What's going on?_ , searching her face for clues or signs of attention. 

_I don't know,_ she signed back. _Either we're being robbed or Jessica is pissed off. I'm pretty sure it's the latter._

_Should we do something?_ , Clint asked. Keeping up with Jessica's moods could be exhausting even while well-rested, which he definitely wasn't. They'd only gone to sleep a little over two hours ago, having stayed up to finish watching a movie, and they'd been up early that morning for rehearsal, despite the fact that it was Saturday. This close to opening night, there really wasn't such a thing as a weekend or day off... although they didn't actually have anything going on tomorrow – today, now – so he'd figured they could sleep in.

Apparently Jessica had other ideas.

_I'm waiting to see if Mr. Fury does anything,_ Natasha replied, but didn't relax or lay back down. Clint finally sat up beside her, reaching for his hearing aids. 

The sounds of slamming were muffled, and he didn't know if that was just because of his own hearing, or the door and the hall and the stairway and everything else between here and the kitchen, or because she had actually gotten quieter. He couldn't hear voices, but that wasn't really a surprise. 

Natasha sighed after a minute. _I should go talk to her..._

_Do you want me to come?_

_I don't know,_ Natasha said, then nodded. _You might as well._

So he got up and pulled on a hoodie, waiting for Natasha as she found her slippers and slid her feet into them. He padded down the hall after her, and into the kitchen where Jessica was glowering at the mixer and all of the ingredients she'd gotten out. 

"Everything okay?" Natasha asked, keeping her voice low.

"Everything is just _ducky_ ," Jessica snarled, not even turning to look at her, so maybe Clint had the wrong word at the end. Did people say that? Young people? But then given where Jessica grew up, maybe it wasn't surprising that she was say something like that? He didn't know, and he was too tired to care. It wasn't as if the words really mattered anyway, because it was clear that she meant the opposite.

"What's wrong?" Natasha persisted.

"Nothing," Jessica replied, then a second later, "I don't want to talk about it."

Which meant that she _did_ want to talk about it, but didn't have the words yet, or just didn't want to admit it. Clint got it, he guessed, but at the same time, it was frustrating waiting for her to sort through things while he stood there feeling stupid and useless.

His phone buzzed in his pocket (he didn't remember putting it in there) and he pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Carol. _Shit._ Had she been here before they went to bed? He hadn't heard her, or seen her, so unless she'd snuck in... but most likely she was home... or out somewhere... and that was what was pissing Jessica off.

He ducked into the hall, tapping the screen to answer the call. "Hello?"

"I fucked up."

"Yeah?" 

"Oh yeah."

He retreated farther from the kitchen, climbing the first few stairs before sitting down heavily, feeling as if the weight of the world had just dropped on his shoulders. "Where are you? Are you safe?"

"As houses." She laughed. "What does that even mean? Safe as houses? Houses aren't always safe. People die in houses all the time. Accidents, fires..."

"Are you at home?"

"Yuh."

He breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn't have to drive out to find her in the middle of the night, save her from herself... again. Because she was drunk... again. It had been a while, but that was the thing with recovery, wasn't it? People relapsed. People fell back on old, bad habits, and they relapsed. Still, he'd actually started to feel hopeful when she'd made it three months sober. He should have known better. "Good, Carol. That's good."

"Not really. This place makes me crazy."

"I know," he said. "Were you out before? Did you go out?" 

"No. I didn't drive. I'm not _stupid_." 

"No, you're not," he replied, even though she'd done that exact stupid thing more times than he could count. "You're not stupid at all. So why are you drinking?"

"Drinking? I'm not drinking."

"You're drunk."

"Yes."

"But you're not drinking."

"Anymore."

"Right."

"I called her. I needed to hear her voice. She hung up on me."

"Jessica?"

"Yu-huh."

"Because you're drunk?" It wasn't really a question.

"I guess so," Carol said. "I didn't... I just wanted to..." Her breath caught, loud enough even he could hear it, and then there were no more words, but he could hear _something_. She was crying. Was she crying? 

"Carol? You okay?"

No answer.

"Carol, are you still there?" He waited, straining to hear something, anything, that would indicate that she was still there and that she wasn't drinking more. He raised his voice, thinking maybe she'd set down the phone or dropped it. Hopefully she hadn't passed out. Hopefully she wasn't that far gone. "Carol?"

"If that's her—"

But Jessica's voice was cut off, and Clint didn't know if Natasha had just interrupted her, or actually clamped a hand over her mouth, or maybe she'd just decided not to finish whatever it was she'd started to say.

"Carol?"

"Sorry," she said, sounding defeated. "Sorry."

"Do you need me to come over?" Clint asked. "How drunk are you?"

"Too drunk. Not drunk enough."

"I guess the fact that you can still work your phone is a good sign. I'll come over if you need someone to be there, though." He didn't want to; he'd had enough of caring for drunk people to last him a lifetime, and he wasn't sure he would be able to resist the urge to shake her and tell her that she was throwing her life away, but then maybe that was what she needed to hear. Or maybe she needed someone to listen, because three months clean doesn't turn into a relapse without something to prompt it. 

"I'm fine," she said. "Or... okay. I'm okay. I won't choke on my own vomit or anything. I'll sleep on my side."

He closed his eyes, rubbed them against the sudden stinging. "Okay. You think it would be all right if I stopped by tomorrow?"

"You don't have to," Carol said. 

"I know. But would it be okay if I did?"

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, it'd be okay."

"Okay. Call me if you need anything, okay? Even if it's just company."

"I will."

"It'll get better, Carol," he told her, even though he didn't know if it was true or not. "Okay? Just get some sleep."

"Yeah," she said. "You too." She hung up before he could say anything else, which was probably better because he didn't know what else he could have said. He just sat there for a minute, his head hanging down, rubbing the hair at the back of his neck absently like he could somehow soothe himself. It didn't really work, so he forced himself up to make sure that Natasha hadn't found it necessary to restrain Jessica in his absence.

In the kitchen, they were putting cookie dough on trays. The light on the oven said that it was preheated. Since Natasha was helping, he guessed that meant that they were in this for the long haul, and he wasn't getting much, if any, sleep tonight.

"I don't know why she called me," Jessica said as she put two trays in the oven and began filling a third. How many cookies had she made? "I don't know why she thought that it would be okay."

"I don't think she did," Clint ventured. "She said she just needed to hear the sound of your voice. I think she was upset and so she did the thing that she does when she's upset without thinking about it, and then she realized that she'd made a mistake and that made her more upset but instead of drinking more, she called you instead, because that's a better thing to do, but—"

"So you're saying that I should have just told her that it was okay?" If looks could kill, he would be dead, caught in the crosshairs of Jessica's glare. 

"No," Clint said. "I'm not saying that you should have done anything different than what you did. I'm just trying to explain maybe why she called you even though she knew that it would upset you to know that she'd been drinking."

"Which she was supposed to give up!" Jessica said. "She told me she wasn't going to drink anymore. After my birthday, after she screwed that up, she said she was giving it up, that she couldn't let anything like that happen again. So why the _hell_ would she do it now?"

"I don't know," Clint admitted. "I didn't ask her. But people... alcoholics... it's not that easy. When you're addicted to something, it's not just... It's a habit, and even though you know it's a bad habit, that it hurts you and hurts the people around you, it's still a habit, and sometimes you fall back into that habit when you get so low that you can't think and... and then you have to start all over. And maybe it's easier the second time and maybe it's not, but I honestly think it was a mistake, Jess."

"So I'm just supposed to forgive her?"

"I can't decide that for you," Clint said. "But... she didn't get hurt. She's safe at home. She didn't hurt anyone else... physically... and I think she's sorry she did it."

"She can be as sorry as she wants but it doesn't mean that I'm just going to accept that and... sorry doesn't fix anything. It doesn't make me worry less that this will keep happening, that I'll just have to watch her get worse and become less herself and more... no one and..."

Her hands were shaking, and Natasha gently took the spoon from them and took them, holding them pressed together between her own. "It is more likely she will keep failing if she thinks there is no one who cares if she succeeds," she said softly. "She calls you because she thinks – maybe she thinks – she is all alone in the world until she hears you and knows that is not true."

"I can't..." Jessica shook her head, pulled her hands away from Natasha. "I can't be her reason to not fall apart," she said. "I can't be her reason not to self-destruct. I don't need that kind of pressure."

"Do you love her?" Natasha asked. "Not here," she pointed to her temple, " _here_." She reached out and touched Jessica's chest, over her heart. "Do you love her?"

"I never asked to!"

"That is not an answer," Natasha pressed.

"I think it is," Clint said. 

"She needs to say it."

"It's none—"

"She needs to hear it. She needs to hear the words come from her own mouth or she will not believe them, because she doesn't believe the truth from anyone but herself." Natasha tipped up Jessica's chin, held her like that until she looked her in the eye. "Do you love her?"

Jessica jerked away. "Yes," she snapped. "Goddamnit, yes, you bitch. Yes, I love her. So what?"

Natasha shrugged. "So now you decide what that means."

"It doesn't _mean_ anything," Jessica said. "It just means that she can hurt me."

"Do you think she loves you?" Clint asked.

Silence, and then it was as if all of the fight went out of her. "I know she does. She says it, and I believe it."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means that I can hurt her too."

"That's all? Love is just being able to hurt someone?"

"It feels that way sometimes."

"Sometimes," Natasha agreed. "But sometimes it means you can save them. Even from herself." She didn't look at Clint, but her hand stretched back towards him, and he reached out to take it, squeezing it tightly. 

"What if I can't?" Jessica asked.

"You won't know unless you try," Clint said. "And then, even if you fail, at least you'll know it wasn't because you gave up."

She didn't say anything, just went back to putting cookie dough on the tray for the next batch. 

*

When Clint went to see Carol the next day, it was armed with a plate of cookies. He went while the rest of her family was out of the house, at church or wherever they went, and she let him in. She was showered and dressed, and although her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot, she didn't look too badly hungover. She took the plate from him and peeled back the plastic wrap, stuffing a cookie almost whole into her mouth before offering him one.

"Did you talk to her?" he asked, because he'd thought he'd heard Jessica on the phone before he left, and who else would she be calling?

"Yeah," Carol said. "I don't know... she's angry at me, and she has every right to be. But at least she's talking. If she's telling me how pissed off she is, it means there's a chance I haven't screwed things up before. If she goes silent, that's when I know things are really bad."

He nodded. "You want to talk about what happened?"

She sighed, sinking down into a chair. He took a seat on the couch, turned so he could see her face. "I just... I don't know what I'm doing. I'm wasting my time at community college, which won't get me anywhere, and there's no hope of me transferring unless I hit the lottery or something, and I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen. And it sucks and it's unfair and if even _you_ can—" She stopped herself. "Shit. I didn't mean it like that."

Clint shrugged. He knew that he ought to be offended, but it would have required energy he didn't really have. "It's okay. Your grades are better than mine could ever be. Any college would be happy to have you, I bet."

"Trouble is, they won't pay for me to come."

"Have you tried?"

Carol shrugged. "Last year... even though my parents didn't want me to, I did some applications. I had to sneak around to get their financial stuff for the aid application, and even though I got accepted to schools, they didn't offer enough for me to be able to afford it. The only chance I have is waiting until I'm old enough that they don't look at my parents' income when deciding how much they'll give me, but by then..." She shrugged. "I should just give up, figure out something to do with my life that doesn't involve a college degree. But my dad won't even let me work construction, and unless I move out of the area, nowhere else is going to hire me, either, for fear of pissing him off."

"That sucks," Clint said, because he didn't know what else to say.

"Pretty much," Carol agreed. "So... last night they were talking about my little brother's college plans, because even though I'm older and my grades are better, he's the _boy_ so the money they've saved up goes to him... and I lost it. And I drank. I should have gone to Jess instead, but I didn't, I drank, and now..."

"Now you start over," Clint said. "Today is the first day."

She sighed. "Yeah, but of what?"

He didn't have an answer.


	28. Chapter 28

"...Damn it, Clint!"

The headset crackled into life... or maybe it was his ears... just in time to hear himself being sworn at, but not soon enough to clue him in as to why. Had he missed another cue? He'd been watching everything happening on stage to make sure that that didn't happen, but there was still a chance... Or maybe something had changed. Maybe he'd forgotten to write something down. Maybe a lot of things. He looked down at his script, searching for what might be wrong.

One of the actors came stomping off stage, grabbed something from the small props table in the wings (there was a larger one in the hall) and went stomping back. Clint thought he might have glared as he passed, but it was hard to see in the dim light that filtered through the layers of black curtain. 

"Props aren't my responsibility," Clint hissed to no one in particular. Except they kind of were, a little, because it was one of the members of the crew who had been put in charge of them, and he was in charge of the backstage crew (the stage portion of it, anyway – Natasha was in charge of the costumes, and some girl he didn't know was in charge of the makeup). 

They ground their way through the rest of the first act, and as soon as the director's voice called intermission, he yanked off his headset and set it aside. He started to head for the stage door, the hall, outside for a breath of fresh air (or maybe a cigarette, with the way this morning was going) but was stopped by Pepper, who looked ready to explode. 

"What the h—" she started, then stopped, took a breath, visibly composing herself. "What is going on?" she asked him. (Although asked might have been too polite a term for it...) "You've been missing cues all morning, and not responding to questions over the comm system, and... well, just generally not doing your job. I know that it's Sunday morning, and maybe you stayed up too late last night or maybe you thought that this just wasn't that important, but—"

"I didn't hear anyone ask me anything," Clint said. "I've been doing my best with the cues, but I'm not hearing—"

"How did you do this job last year?" Pepper asked. "It wasn't like this last year. We didn't have these problems."

"Carol did it," Clint admitted, as if it was somehow his fault. "Carol was the one on the headset, and she told me what to do, and what to get the others to do, if there was a question about it."

"Well you need to get yourself together," Pepper said. "Because everything else is going smoothly. It's only your crew that's causing a problem. And I'd really like to get through this show, a full run-through, today, without having to stop constantly to figure out why you're not doing your job."

Clint gritted his teeth and nodded, because what else was he supposed to do? As soon as she stepped away, though, he pushed through the stage door and made for the front entrance, slamming into the door before it gave way and let him out. 

His hands were shaking as he lit a cigarette, ducking around the corner of the building so that no one would see him there. He breathed in, feeling the smoke burn his lungs, and let it out again, slowly. He took another drag, not thinking about the fact that he didn't smoke nearly as much now as he had in the past, and that doing so this fast was likely to make him feel sick. Part of him thought maybe he should do it on purpose. They couldn't keep him here if he wasn't feeling good, and then his job would become someone else's problem, and they would see that maybe he wasn't the best at it, but at least he tried.

Of course it would probably backfire, and whoever it was who took over for him would be great at it, and they would just be glad to see the back of him. Because that was pretty much how things worked, wasn't it? At least when your last name was Barton.

He didn't hear anyone approach, but suddenly the cigarette was being pulled from his fingers. For a second he thought it was Natasha, stealing it to take a drag for herself, but no, it was Bobbi, and she was dropping it and crushing it under her heel half-smoked.

"Smoking is bad for you," she said. 

"I know," Clint said.

"So why do you do it?"

"Because it's better for me than busting my fists against the bricks."

Bobbi considered that, then nodded. "I guess you have a point. We've got a ten minute break, anyway, if you missed it."

"No, I got that part," Clint snapped. "I do get things right once in a while."

Bobbi looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "You don't need to be an asshole about it," she said. "I didn't see you leave, so I wasn't sure you'd heard. I was trying to be nice. I guess I shouldn't bother?"

He sighed. "Sorry," he said. "I just... I've been getting yelled at all morning. Probably more than I'm aware of, since they say that I'm not responding to things over the comm, but I'm not _hearing_ them, so how am I supposed to respond? Pepper's pissed, but _she's_ the one who asked me to do this damn job, and it's not my fault that I'm not actually cut out for it."

"Have you tried adjusting the volume on the headset?" Bobbi asked. "And I'm not asking that to be a jerk."

"Yes," Clint said. "I've got it cranked up as high as I can, and I've got my hearing aids turned up, too, and they've got fresh batteries, so it's not that. It's just... it's like the sound is constantly cutting in and out, but apparently it's more out than in."

"Maybe there's something wrong with the headset," Bobbi said. "Or maybe... and this isn't my area of scientific expertise, we would be better off with Bruce or Tony... but maybe somehow there's some kind of interference going on between the headset and your hearing aids? Maybe that's not a thing, but could it be a possibility?"

"I don't know," Clint admitted. "I hadn't really thought about it. Either one."

"Well, there's an easy enough way to test at least the first part of it," Bobbi said. "I'll be on the headset for the second half, and I'll see if I'm having the same issue with things cutting out. If I am, then we try to get a replacement headset, and that fixes the problem. If I'm not, then maybe there _is_ some sort of interference, and either we figure out what's causing it and fix it, or... well, I'm on the headset."

"It's my job," Clint said. "I should be able to—"

"And I'm your assistant, and I'm don't think there's anything in the rules, if said rules even exist, that say that the stage manager has to be the one listening in and the assistant stage manager has to be the one running around making sure everyone is doing what they're supposed to be doing. You're still the one who figured everything out, I'll just be the one doing the communicating. It's not a big deal."

"Maybe not to you," Clint said. 

"Is it to you?" Bobbi asked. "In the end, does it matter who gets the job done, as long as it gets done?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it does matter."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, knowing that he was going to have to elaborate, that there was no way that Bobbi was going to let it go at that. She wasn't really the letting go type. More like a terrier after a rat, and he really didn't want her to get her teeth into his neck if he could avoid it. "Because it just proves – again –that I can't do something. That I'm not good enough."

"That you've got a disability?" She looked at him, her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. "Because you do, Clint, whether you like it or not. And that means that sometimes you're not going to be able to do everything that someone who has all of their hearing will be able to do, or you won't be able to do it as easily. So what?"

"So I don't want to!" Clint said. "So people forget about it most of the time, and I do my best to keep up and hide the fact that half of the time I can't, and then suddenly I can't fake it anymore and they remember and then I'm just a problem, I'm useless, and..."

"You're not _useless_ ," Bobbi countered. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot of stupid things in my life. I have a little brother, after all." She smiled, but let it fall when he didn't return it. "We've all got problems," she said. "Every single one of us. It's just yours is maybe a little more obvious than other people's. Pepper has panic attacks and Natasha is still working on English and Jessica has and refuses to admit she has PTSD and I'm on anti-rejection medication for the rest of my life because my heart gave out and Steve has asthma and... you're not alone. Even if you feel like you are, you're not."

"Misfit toys," Clint muttered.

"Exactly. But no one's throwing you a pity party but you, and honestly, it's not very attractive. I'm pretty sure if Natasha was out here she would say the same, but she's too busy trying not to kill one of the actors who decided, despite being told a thousand times otherwise, that it was okay to drink soda in costume, and then, guess what? He spilled it on himself. Or maybe it was Gatorade, but in any case, it wasn't a clear liquid and now she has to get a stain out of a material that I don't think is particularly washable, so she doesn't even get a ten minute break. So maybe instead of wallowing we should go make sure that _she_ has some clear liquids and maybe some aspirin while we're at it, and get this stupid headset situation sorted out."

"Yeah, okay," Clint said, pushing himself away from the wall. Because it was easier to do what he was told than to argue, especially when she was probably (okay, definitely) right. Letting himself spiral into a black hole of self-pity wasn't going to solve anything.

They went to check on Natasha, who was wearing that careful mask that said that she was very, very angry and didn't want to show it. Jessica had already made sure that she had water, and was eating a granola bar (in the hall, away from the costumes) before going back into the room with her. Clint crouched down at Natasha's side, touching her arm gently. _Is there anything I can do to help?_

She shook her head, but forced a smile, and set the vest that she was sponging off aside. _I'm hoping it doesn't stain,_ she signed back. _If it does..._ She shrugged, sighed. _If he was the same size as Sam, I would just switch it out, because it makes sense for Grantaire's vest to be stained, but of course they're not. How are things going for you?_

He grimaced. _Not so great. Something might be wrong with the headset, or maybe it's just my ears. We have to figure it out. I might have to let Bobbi take over._

She looked at him, studying him. _You don't want to have to do that._

_I'll feel like a failure._

_You're not,_ she said. _You've done everything pretty much perfectly right up until now. It's not your fault if hearing isn't your strong suit._

_That's pretty much what Bobbi said,_ he admitted.

_Well, Bobbi's a smart girl._ She leaned in, kissed his cheek quickly. _Go figure it out. I'll see you after._

Clint brushed back her hair and kissed her temple, then went back out to the hall where Bobbi was talking to Jessica. "Let's go figure this out," he said.

Bobbi smiled and followed him into the auditorium, where they found Pepper and asked if, before they got things rolling again, she and the other people who were on the comm system could help them test something, because they thought maybe something was wrong with the headset that they were using. 

It didn't take long. "It's not you," Bobbi said. "I'm only getting one word out of five, it seems like. Sometimes I can hear them talking, but it's hard to make things out – which would probably make it impossible for you – and sometimes there's just nothing, and all of a sudden it will cut in and I can hear it loud and clear, but of course by then it's too late."

She pressed the button so that she could be heard. "Pepper, this headset is FUBAR. Do we have another?"

Clint didn't hear the response, but Bobbi took it off. "She said she would check. She's pretty sure that we do, and if we don't, well... we'll have to get one, or fix this one, but considering that these things have probably been around since roughly the beginning of time, a new one is probably a better idea." 

Five minutes later, Pepper was back with a new (well, new old) headset. "Try this," she said, handing it to Clint, who handed it to Bobbi, since that would give them a baseline. 

"Better," Bobbi said. "Much better." She handed it to Clint, who put it on, and with a few adjustments, he was able to hear the chatter on the comm. Probably not as well as Bobbi could, but he could hear it. He nodded.

Pepper sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "It didn't even occur to me that that might be the problem. I should have checked that before I decided to be a jerk to you."

Clint shrugged. "It's all right. It didn't occur to me, either. Bobbi is the brains of the operation."

Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Not really," she said. "I'm just the one with enough emotional distance to look at things logically."

"Are we ready to go?" Pepper asked. "I think we've gone beyond the ten minutes."

"We're ready," Bobbi said.

"Ready as we'll ever be," Clint amended.

Pepper smiled. "Well yeah," she said. "That pretty much goes without saying." She headed for the front of the stage, calling the cast back for a quick meeting before they launched into act two.

"Do you want to try it for the second act?" Bobbi asked. "Now that you can hear? Or do you want me to do it?"

"I'll try," Clint said. "I have to try."

"Good. Because I didn't really want to do it," Bobbi told him with a wink. "Your job is boring. I get to run around."

He laughed. "You just don't want to be the one blamed if something goes wrong."

Her eyebrows went up, and she looked at him all wide-eyed innocence. "Would I do that?" she asked. 

"Yes, yes you would," he said. "Like I said, you're the brains of the operation."

She laughed and went to round up the crew, making sure that everyone knew where they needed to be and what they needed to be doing for the act. A second later Pepper's voice was in his ear, calling places. 

The second act didn't go flawlessly, but it was a lot smoother than the first, and by the end, everyone seemed to be in a reasonably good mood. They ran through a few trouble spots a few more times, and then piled into cars for the traditional post-Sunday Start of Hell Week pizza party at a nearby restaurant.

"I think it's going to be all right," Clint said, to no one in particular.

"No," Pepper said. "No, it won't."

Everyone looked at her with various expressions of surprise and alarm. "It's not going to be just 'all right'. It's going to be _awesome_ , and don't any of you forget it."

Clint wished he could share her level of confidence... or maybe it was false bravado... but it still felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders to make sure that nothing went wrong. There wasn't much left that Pepper could do at this point; the cast knew the music, knew their blocking, all of that. The day-to-day, moment-to-moment stuff at this point pretty much fell on him, and the lighting, sound, and costume people. 

Natasha squeezed his knee under the table. _It'll be fine,_ she said. _We'll be fine._

He felt someone nudge his foot, and looked over at Bobbi, who sat across from them at the booth that they occupied. He assumed it was just an accident, until her hands came up and she signed, _No. Not fine. Great._

He looked at Natasha, wondering if she'd taught Bobbi the signs, but she quickly shook her head no to the silent question. _Where...?_

"The internet," Bobbi said. "Duh. It’s not _just_ for porn."

And then all conversation ceased as one of the members of the cast launched into song.


	29. Chapter 29

"I don't know how to feel," Clint said, pulling apart a roll he'd taken from the basket on the table and spreading it with butter. "It's over. We've been working our asses off for months and now it's just... done."

"I know what you mean," Bobbi said. "It just feels really final, although we still have to go in tomorrow and tear the set down."

Clint grimaced. "It feels like we just put it all together. It feels wrong to take it apart."

"But it's just cluttering up the stage now," Jessica pointed out. Clint was honestly surprised that she'd come. They held a banquet, a party for everyone who had participated in the musical in any function, after the Sunday matinee every year, but she'd always seemed so ambivalent about the whole experience that he wasn't sure she would care about being here to see it through to the end. She'd come last year, but that was because Carol had made her. "And they'll need some of the parts for next year, right?"

"I know," Clint said. "Maybe it should be the responsibility of next year's stage manager to take it apart." 

But he had no idea who that was. In hindsight, he probably should have found an underclassman to be his assistant stage manager, someone who he could teach the job so that they would be ready to do it the following year when he wasn't around anymore. But at the time he'd been looking for someone, he'd just been thinking about how he needed someone he knew that he could rely on _now_. So both he and Bobbi were graduating, leaving no one behind with any know-how. 

On the other hand, Pepper was graduating, too, so it wasn't like he was going to get text messages from her cursing his name or anything. It was all someone else's problem now. 

"It didn't feel like this last year," Natasha said. "Even though we did not know then that we would do it again this year, it did not feel so like everything is all over."

"There was always the _chance_ you would do it again," Bobbi mused. "So maybe that's why. Now it's like... everything we do, it's the last time we do it."

Jessica rolled her eyes. "No, I still have to go to math class way too many times before it's the last time."

"You know what I mean," Bobbi said. "This is the last high school musical we'll work on, and—"

"Unless we turn out like Steve," Clint joked. "He just can't seem to get enough."

Steve came over then, sitting down. "Did I hear someone say my name?"

"We were talking about how this would be our last high school musical, unless we were like you and kept coming back," Clint said. 

"Way to keep reliving your glory days," Bobbi teased. 

"Hey," Steve said. "I know that a lot of people talk about how much high school sucks, but I met good people there. Not any of you, obviously, but..." He grinned. "Kidding. It felt good to be able to give back a little, to help out when they needed me. And it was fun getting to work with all of you for a little while longer before we all scatter."

"Are you going somewhere?" Jessica asked. "I always thought of you as the kind of guy who never actually leaves his hometown."

Clint wasn't sure if she meant it to be rude or not. Sometimes she just said things without really thinking about how they might sound, but then sometimes he was pretty sure that she knew _exactly_ how they sounded, and meant for them to sound that way, and she just didn't care. They cut her a lot of slack, but then they all cut each other slack in a lot of ways, because they knew, at least on some level, where everyone was coming from. How long would that last in the outside world?

"I don't know yet," Steve said. "I'm waiting to hear back from colleges, same as you."

"I'm not going to college," Jessica said. "I'm done with all of that."

"What are you going to do?" Steve asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"I'm going to culinary school." She straightened a little, looking almost proud. "I already got accepted. I could start over the summer if I wanted to, or I can start in the fall. It'll depend, I guess, on what happens."

No one asked what she meant, and Clint was pretty sure that she didn't want them to. He assumed that she meant that it would depend on what happened with Carol, who had stayed sober since her lapse (as far as he knew) but who still seemed to be struggling. 

"Is that around here?" Steve asked.

She shook her head. "No. New York. I... this place hasn't completely sucked, but... I need to get away from here. I need to be somewhere big enough that I can lose myself a little bit more. I... I'm still looking over my shoulder all the time."

"I understand," Steve said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Clint was surprised when she didn't flinch away. "Well good for you! Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

Jessica shrugged. "I only found out last week. We were all pretty busy with other things."

"Congratulations," Bobbi said. "You'll be awesome, I'm sure of it."

"I expect you will have table saved for us at first restaurant you work at," Natasha said. She'd looked, if not quite as surprised as the rest of them, still slightly startled at Jessica's announcement, so clearly she hadn't told _anyone_ He wondered, but didn't ask, if Carol knew yet.

"I'll see what I can do," Jessica said, with a hint of a smile. "I don't know if I'm going to do all of the chef training, or go more for pastry. I like baking better than cooking, usually. I'm pretty sure I have to take classes in all of it, anyway, so I guess I'll figure it out."

"I'm sure you will," Steve said. He grabbed a roll. "Has anyone else heard anything? I know that Pepper did early decision, so she already knows, but what about the rest of you?" They shook their heads. "Yeah, me either," he said. "Hopefully soon."

"I feel like so much of what we do at this point is wait," Bobbi said. "Like waiting for the buffet to be set up..." Which got her a laugh, but then she continued more seriously. "We waited for opening night and now it's come and gone, and now we're waiting to hear back from colleges and waiting for graduation and then... what? We go off to school and that's when life really begins? It feels all wrong. If I've learned anything in the last couple of years, it's that you can't wait around waiting for life to happen."

"Life _is_ happening, isn't it?" Clint asked. "This is part of it. But the thing is that in life every time something begins, it eventually has to end, and then something else starts. Sometimes things have to end for something else to begin, right?"

Bobbi frowned. "I guess I didn't really say that well. Or maybe... I don't know. I've had so little sleep in the past week, I feel like I probably shouldn't be allowed to think too deeply. I guess I just feel like... this should feel like more. It's like you said. We've worked our asses off for this, and now it's just... anti-climactic? that it's ending."

"Maybe it's just us," Clint said. "Maybe it's because we're just crew. It doesn't seem like it's so anti-climactic for the cast." Judging by the amount of hugging and crying and reminiscing that was going on, anyway.

"There's no such thing as 'just crew'," Steve said. "You guys are just as important as the cast."

"No we're not," Natasha said. "They can do show in regular clothes, no set, and is still show. Maybe not as interesting, but it still would be interesting."

"Okay," Steve admitted, "maybe not _just_ as important, but you put just as much work into it, maybe – probably – more, and you deserve recognition for that."

"I am not holding my breath," Natasha said. "Blue is not my best color."

Clint laughed.

"Hey, buffet!" Jessica said, and was out of her seat and to the buffet table before almost anyone else. 

Once they had food, they had something to distract them from their melancholy, at least for a while. But then the seniors from the cast got up and sang a song (Clint didn't recognize it, but he was sure it was very sentimental about everything they were leaving behind or whatever) and it came back. And it was weird, because from the moment he'd started school, all he'd wanted was for it to be over, to be able to get out and start his life somewhere else, where he didn't have to live by anyone else's rules. Now that moment was fast approaching and he wasn't sure he was ready, and he wished that he could slow down time, make it last just a little longer. Maybe not the actual school part, but with Jess going to New York and Steve maybe staying here or maybe going somewhere else, and Pepper going to California and Bobbi going he wasn't sure where... 

He knew this wouldn't be the last time that the group of them were together, not tonight, but in a few months? At the end of the summer? Even if they all got back together at some point, it wouldn't be the same. Once this was over, it was over, and there would be no going back. 

After all of the food had been eaten, songs sung, awards given out, and tears shed, they all filed out to the parking lot. The adults involved with the production started herding people toward their cars, saying something along the lines of, "I don't care where you go, but you can't stay here," and, "Don't skip school tomorrow," and "Remember that the breakdown of the set is tomorrow and we can use everyone's help." 

Clint unlocked the doors of his car, and Jessica got into the back seat. Before Natasha could get in, Clint touched her arm. _Can I stay with you tonight?_

_It's a school night,_ she pointed out, frowning. 

_I don't care._

_I know, but will the Sullivans?_

_I don't care,_ he repeated stubbornly. _I don't want to be alone tonight._

_You should ask them,_ Natasha said, _but if you want to stay, you can stay._

Clint got out his phone and texted Mrs. Sullivan, who (he assumed grudgingly, and with many misgivings) consented, so they stopped at his house for him to get a change of clothes (even though he was pretty sure he had at least one full outfit at Natasha's house by now, tucked away in the corner of one of her drawers) and his backpack. Luckily his teachers were smart enough to know that the weekend of the musical was busy for a lot of people, and he hadn't ended up with any homework, because if he had it wouldn't have gotten done.

Once they were back at her house, safely behind her closed (and locked) door, Natasha asked, _What's wrong?_

He sighed. _I don't know. Just... a feeling. Like everything is ending and at least for me, I don't know what's beginning. I never used to think much about the future. I assumed I knew what it would hold. Even if it was in a different city every few days, one day would be pretty much like the one before it and the one after it. Now... now I have to figure out how to be someone else, someone other than the person I'd thought I would become._

_Is that a bad thing?_

He thought about that for a moment, because he honestly wasn't sure he knew the answer. _No,_ he decided finally. _It's not bad. Just... unsettling._

_I know what you mean,_ Natasha said. _There isn't much room for dreaming in a Russian orphanage. Although one could say that that was **all** there was room for, and we did it constantly, but there were dreams and there were dreams, if you know what I mean._

Clint shook his head, because he didn't, really. 

_There were the dreams that you had that truly were dreams, the ones where you could be anything you wanted to be, go anywhere you wanted to go, and you would live happily ever after. The Hollywood dreams. Then there were the ones that were more realistic... like the idea of having a room of your own and being able to cook any sort of food that you wanted, having a job that let you do that._ She leaned back against her pillows, propped against her headboard. _When I came here, it felt like a Hollywood dream, almost, but then it so quickly turned into a nightmare that I couldn't wake up from. When I did... I didn't know what to dream of. Suddenly I got to pick the course that my life took, and I had no idea how to do that._

_But you know now,_ Clint signed, somewhere between a statement and a question.

_I think I know,_ Natasha said. _But that doesn't mean that it will work out._

_If it doesn't?_

_Then I'll have to dream a new dream,_ she said with a shrug. _Just as you will. Whatever happens, though, we'll figure it out together._

_What if..._ Clint started, then stopped himself. When Natasha looked ready to prod him into continuing, he added, _Never mind. I don't want to start borrowing trouble. We'll wait until we hear back from colleges, and we'll figure it out from there._

_Okay,_ she signed. _We should try to sleep._

_Do you think you will?_ , he asked, because sleep had never been particularly kind to either one of them.

Natasha considered, then nodded. _I think I will. I think it will be waking up and getting ready for school that will be hard, especially with you here._

He smirked. _I'll do my best not to distract you._

_I don't promise the same,_ she teased, but as soon as the lights were out, so was she. Clint thought that he would spend the rest of the night with his thoughts chasing around his head, but sooner than he expected, the darkness dragged him down.

The following day was endless. Even though they'd slept, and theoretically shouldn't be tired, they were _exhausted_ on a deeper level. A week of stress and sleep deprivation would do that to a person. Clint managed not to fall asleep in any of his classes, but he also failed to make sense of a single word that was said. He would dutifully take out a notebook and put the date on the top of the page, and by the time the bell rang that was still the only thing written. He would have to figure out what he had missed later.

After school, he headed for the auditorium. The rest of his crew was gathered, or the vast majority of them. One or two had skipped school like they'd all been told not to, desperate to catch up on sleep, probably, and hadn't even come in late to be there to tear down the set. There were members of other crews there as well, including Jessica, but she was there to help Natasha with getting the costumes stored in case they, or any part of them, were ever needed in the future. 

Bobbi appeared at his side as they were filing in. "How long do you think this is going to take?" she asked. 

"I don't know," Clint said. "A few hours. Why? Do you have somewhere you need to be?"

"No," she said. "I was just curious."

"Last year it took... three hours? Maybe four. I don't remember. It kind of sucks that we have to do it after school and can't wait until the weekend or something, when we would have more time. I was thinking about ordering pizza for everyone, but I have to ask Pepper about it," Clint said.

"Is she here?"

"Do you think she would let _any_ part of this show happen without her being around to supervise?" Clint asked. 

Bobbi laughed. "Okay, you have a point. I guess we should break out the tools and get started. Do we have a list of what needs to be done?"

"I thought you were bringing the list," Clint said.

"You didn't—"

"Joking," he said. "Yes, I have a list. I mean, it's pretty much, 'Break shit down,' but I tried to do it in an organized way."

"Awesome." They went over the list and got people started working, then grabbed tools of their own and got down to business, although they kept getting interrupted by people needing a new task, or needing to know where something went, or needing help when something wasn't coming apart the way it was supposed to. 

Clint didn't mind, though. The constant distraction kept him from being able to really think about what they were doing, about how easy it was to undo months of work, to break everything they'd built over time down into piles of junk, and piles of things that would be turned into something else next year, so that what they'd done would just disappear under a fresh coat of paint. If he let himself think too much about _that_ , he might start to think it was some kind of metaphor, and the last thing he needed right now was to have an existential crisis.

About an hour in, he was interrupted in the process of taking out a particularly stubborn bolt by yet another tap on the shoulder. When he looked up, he was surprised (he wasn't sure 'surprised' actually covered it) to see Loki looking down at him. Behind him was several of the other members of the cast, the boys that had made up the group they called the Amis (whatever that meant). Even Sam was there.

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Loki asked.

"Are you serious?" Clint asked, before he could stop himself.

Loki's expression soured. "Yes, I'm serious."

"Sorry," Clint said. "We didn't expect anyone from the cast to actually show up. Yes, you can definitely help. Actually... I think I've got a job that you'll like doing." He smiled, and led them over to the barricade. "You built it – well, we built it, but theoretically you built it, plot-wise – so you can take it apart."

Loki looked at the barricade, then at Clint, then back at the barricade and nodded. "We can do that."

Clint gave them tools, and they got to work. A little while later, he approached again. "We were wondering if we could... take parts of it," he said. "Nothing big, but there are some smaller bits that have kind of broken off – we've tried to be careful, but –"

"But it doesn't always work," Clint said. "Yeah, I know."

"So there are pieces that would just end up in the junk heap. We were wondering if we could take a few. As a souvenir."

Clint shrugged. "Sure, why not?" he said. "It's all going to get hauled out one way or another, so if it was going to be junked anyway, and you want it, go ahead."

Loki nodded, and for a second Clint thought he might actually say thank you, but that was obviously too much to ask, because he just walked away, back to his friends, to give them the good news. 

Clint was glad that Pepper okayed the pizza, because it turned out to be a bigger task, taking things apart, than he had anticipated, and it was well past dinner time by the time they finished everything up. But finally everything was done, stored away or dragged out to the dumpster. The stage was swept and the tools locked up.

"This is it," Clint said, as those who hadn't already gone home gathered in a circle in the middle of the stage. When he looked around, he realized that every single one of them was a senior. "This is our last day here."

"If we come back next year," Pepper said, "it will only be as members of the audience."

"It's weird to think about that," Loki said. 

"It is," Pepper agreed. "But we had a good run, didn't we? This year's show was better than I imagined it could be. So thank you all. I know some of you were dragged into this not entirely willingly, but... I hope it was worth it."

"It was," Bobbi said. "It definitely was."

Clint looked around at them, and felt Natasha's fingers close around his on one side, and Bobbi's on the other, and watched as hands joined all around the circle, and they just stood there, quiet, looking at each other, and many eyes were filled with tears, and some stared at their toes after a minute.

He'd been part of something – they all had – and this was the end. He squeezed the hands of the girls on either side of him, and felt them squeeze back. Maybe he wasn't the only one not quite ready yet to let go.


	30. Chapter 30

"Who's that with Steve?" Jessica asked, pointing not so subtly in the direction of their friend, who was walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the wide mall corridor. 

"Probably friend from college," Natasha suggested. "You think we are his only friends?"

"No," Jessica said. "But it doesn't look like they're too friendly."

When Clint looked harder, he could see Jess's point. Although they were standing near each other, Steve looked worried and the young man with him looked... distracted? Unfocused? But no, it wasn't lack of focus, it was an excess of it, like he was trying to pay attention to everything at once and it was freaking him out. His eyes darted every which way, not landing on anything for long, and the tension through his back and shoulders was palpable even at this distance.

They watched as Steve reached for him, probably to touch his arm, maybe to gently guide him out of the crowd (although it wasn't actually that crowded) to somewhere quieter, but the person, whoever he was, jerked away. It was then that Clint noticed that his other arm, the left one, wasn't there. Instead the sleeve of his jacket dangled empty. Maybe his arm was just in a sling underneath; didn't they do that if you dislocated your shoulder or something? 

Steve held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, showing he meant no harm, and when his companion started walking, he followed. Clint could see his mouth moving, see that he was still talking, but he couldn't make sense of the shapes his mouth was making to know what he was saying.

"Do you think we should go over?" Jessica asked. "Make sure everything is okay?"

Clint couldn't tell from her expression whether she was actually trying to be nice, or if she was just curious and wanted to satisfy that curiosity. 

"I'm not sure there's anything we can do to help," Clint said. "We should probably just let him handle it." Which was maybe a cop-out, maybe he was just being a coward, not wanting to get involved in a situation that looked volatile at best... or maybe he was exercising good judgment, not potentially exacerbating a situation that looked like a hand grenade with the pin already pulled. Because he felt like he'd seen that look before, the one he'd caught in his brief glimpse of Steve's friend's face. It was a look of someone trapped, desperate, and with no idea how to escape. It was a look he'd seen on Natasha's face years ago, more than once, and that he hoped he would never see again.

Jessica looked at Natasha, waiting for her to chime, waiting to see whose side she would take, Clint assumed. As if they were taking sides, as if this was a fight. Was it? It shouldn't be... should it? He could be wrong about the whole thing, but... he didn't feel as if he was wrong, and his gut instinct was generally pretty good. He didn't always listen to it, but usually when he didn't he regretted it afterward.

"I think maybe it is better we leave alone," Natasha said after a minute. "See, it looks like they are leaving."

And it did. Steve had managed to get the other guy moving, and they were heading for the door. Steve glanced around, looking more worried than ever, but he didn't see them. And then he – they – turned a corner and disappeared.

"Who do you think it was?" Jessica asked, when they settled at the food court to eat dinner. 

"Maybe none of our business," Natasha said. 

Jess rolled her eyes. "Maybe, but maybe it is. If it's a friend of Steve's, don't you think we would have met him? Steve's had parties before, and he was never there."

"Steve's had parties where he invited his friends from high school," Clint pointed out. "Maybe he doesn't want his college friends to know that he still hangs out with high school kids." He smiled, trying to take the tension out of the situation. "I don't think that would win him very many cool points with the college crowd."

"I don't think there _are_ cool points in community college," Jess said. "After all, it's basically just grade thirteen." 

The words were Carol's, Clint was pretty sure. Grade thirteen, and the place where people who couldn't get into a real school were forced to go... with the exception of those who couldn't _afford_ to go to a real school, of course. But according to Carol, those were pretty few and far between, and the majority of the people there were going to college because it was what they were expected to do, and many of them were in more vocational programs that would prepare them to go into slightly more than menial jobs when they were finished. 

The words were said out of disappointment and bitterness, Clint knew, but that didn't mean he didn't sometimes what to tell her to shut the hell up, because there was every chance he would end up being one of those so-called losers who couldn't get in anywhere else. The tension in school was ramping up among the seniors as people waited for acceptance (they hoped) letters to start coming in. Once they knew that their futures were secure, the rest of the year, he suspected, would just be a slow slide toward graduation, where most people put in the minimum of effort and most teachers gave up on really trying to teach. 

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Did he even _want_ to get into college? Did he really want to commit himself to four more years spent in a classroom when he'd barely made it through the last three? But Steve said it was a different, and so did Carol. You didn't spend your entire day moving from class to class, with barely a break in between. You might have two, _maybe_ three classes in a day, and then the rest of your time was free. Obviously you would have homework to do; sometimes you would spend more time on homework for a class than you actually did in the class itself, Steve had said. But you got to choose your classes, for the most part, to try and suit your interests, and you were given a lot more independence. So maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"Maybe Natasha's right," he said. "Maybe it's none of our business. If he wants us to know, he'll tell us." 

Jessica rolled her eyes again. "Fine, whatever." She jabbed her straw into her milkshake and let herself be distracted by watching the people around them. Clint wondered if she realized that when she did, her guard slipped and it was possible to see just how uncomfortable she was. Not that he blamed her, exactly... this was the same place where she'd been accosted by members of the family that she'd escaped.

They left after they'd finished eating, since they'd already visited the stores that they needed to visit. Clint was glad to get away from it all; he didn't have the same issues with crowds that the girls sometimes did, but the noise level was enough to make him crazy, no matter how low he turned his hearing aids. If it had just been him and Natasha, he would have turned them off completely, but then he wouldn't have been able to hear Jess, and she would probably have gotten annoyed at them for signing. So he'd suffered through, but was glad when they were finally back in his car, in an environment that allowed him to control just how much sound he had to try and process.

After tutoring on Wednesday (because yes, he was still going, even though his hours were done and even though he'd pretty much given up on Lewis ever showing up again, and even though he'd realized that he actually kind of couldn't stand most children most of the time) he caught up with Steve standing outside, apparently waiting for a ride. 

"My car's in the shop," he explained. "Peggy is coming to get me." 

"Do you think she's already on her way?" Clint asked. "Because I can drive you. It's on my way." Mostly, anyway. It would only be a short detour.

"I don't know," Steve said. "Things were... kind of up in the air when I left. But I wasn't going to go straight home, so don't worry about it."

"Where were you going to go?" Clint asked. "I don't mind dropping you off somewhere else, or taking you to run an errand or something, as long as it doesn't take _too_ long. As long as I'm home by, like, nine I'm okay."

Steve looked at him, and Clint felt like he could almost see the wheels turning in his head, trying to decide whether to say what he was thinking, or to tell the truth, or whether to just brush it aside and say that he would wait for Peggy. "I... I was going to head to the VA," he said. "To the rehabilitation center."

Clint's eyebrows went up, but he tried to keep his face mostly under control. "Visiting someone?"

Steve nodded. "An old friend. My oldest friend, actually. I've known him since we were kids, but then we ended up at different high schools. We didn't exactly lose touch, but... things started happening with my mom, and he was busy with sports and everything else, and then... well, then he enlisted, and we would email and everything, but those got fewer and farther between, and it was only recently that I heard that he was back in the area."

"Is that the guy you were with the other night?" he asked. "At the mall?"

Steve looked startled. "Were you there?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't see you."

"We figured it was probably best to leave you alone. It looked like you... had your hands full."

Steve sighed. "It was a bad idea, bringing him there. I thought... well, I thought it would be nice for him to get out. I overestimated how much he could handle, I guess. We were only there for about fifteen minutes before he started to get anxious, so I took him back. It's..." His shoulders slumped. "It's kind of a mess. I don't want to drag you into it."

"You wouldn't be dragging me into anything," Clint said. "If you want me to just drop you off there, I can, or I can wait in the car while you go in, if you don't think you'll be there too long."

"I'm not going to ask you to do that," Steve said. "Maybe he'll be having one of his good days."

"Okay," Clint said. "You should probably text Peggy to let her know so she doesn't show up and think you've been kidnapped." 

Steve flashed him a smile and pulled out his phone, typing as they walked. 

The VA hospital was in the next town over, but it still wasn't too much of a detour. As long as they didn't stay hours, he would still get home in plenty of time, although he was kind of wishing that he'd suggested getting dinner along the way. He would just have to eat after, and hope that the growling of his stomach wasn't too loud and distracting.

"Are you sure you don't want me to wait out here?" Clint asked. He wasn't sure he didn't want Steve to want him to stay out here. He wasn't a big fan of hospitals; it felt like he'd spent too much time in them in the last few years – hospitals and doctors' offices, anyway. Sure, this was supposed to be a rehab facility, where people went to get better, where it wasn't likely that anyone there was going to just up and die, but still, it didn't change the fact that it felt cold and clinical.

"You can come in," Steve said. "Maybe it will be good for him to meet someone new." But he didn't sound too sure of it.

"Okay," Clint said, unfastening his seatbelt. They went inside. Steve was greeted by name at the front desk; obviously he came here often. Clint was eyed a little more suspiciously, but he guessed that having Steve with him was enough to convince them that he wasn't likely to cause any trouble. They were given stickers that labeled them as visitors and let through a door.

"He's in his room," the nurse (or desk attendant, maybe not a nurse, it was hard to know for sure since everyone wore scrubs, apparently) told them.

"Thanks," Steve said. He turned down one of the corridors, and stopped a few doors in, knocking gently even though the door was partway open. "Knock knock," he called.

"Who's there?" a voice growled, and it didn't sound like he was playing along with a knock-knock joke.

"Maybe not one of his better days," Steve said, but went in anyway. "Just me," he said. "Well, me and a friend. Unless you're not up to visitors?"

Clint followed Steve into the room, and saw that the young man that he'd seen with Steve at the mall was sitting in a chair, staring at a TV... that wasn't turned on. He turned to look at them, and his eyes were a piercing blue. They narrowed with suspicion, but he didn't say anything. His hair was dark, lank and unwashed-looking, and his face was rough with at least a day's worth of stubble. Once again, his left sleeve hung empty, and now it was clear that it wasn't due to it being in a sling. "What do you want?" he asked Steve. 

"I just wanted to see you," Steve said easily, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Clint wasn't sure what to do with himself, so he just stayed standing, until he saw Steve motioning for him to sit down, so he took a seat beside him. "See how you are today."

"Great," the man said. "Just fucking peachy."

Steve took a breath, let it out slowly. "This is my friend Clint," he said. "I've told you about him."

Nothing. No reaction, no acknowledgment. 

"Clint, this is my best and oldest friend, James Buchanan Barnes, but everyone just calls him Bucky."

"Nice to meet you," Clint said. 

Bucky snorted. 

"Did you have your appointment with the orthopedist?" Steve asked. "I thought that was supposed to be today."

Bucky shrugged. 

"Well, if it was, I hope it went well," Steve said. "I think once you—"

"Don't you dare start with me," Bucky snapped, turning to glare at Steve. "Don't you dare try to tell me that everything is going to be all right, that I'll feel better when I have a fake arm, that I'll feel better if I get out into the world a little, that I'll feel better at all, because it's not going to happen. Your friend Bucky is dead. Get it through your thick fucking skull."

Clint was impressed at how Steve didn't let the words bother him, or at least how he didn't let it show. "He's not dead," Steve said. " _You're_ not dead. You're right here, and you're alive, and..." He stopped. "It's a bad night," he said. "I get it. I'll—"

"No you don't," Bucky growled. "You don't get it. You will never get it. You can't, because you're a—"

"Come on," Steve said to Clint. "I'll come back tomorrow."

They got up and left while Bucky hurled insults at their retreating backs. Steve didn't say anything until they were back in the car. "Some days he's like that," he said. "Some days... Well, he's never his old self, but sometimes he's close. Some days we talk about old times, and it feels like we're just friends, catching up after a long time. Some days... Some days are worse than that. Some days he just lays in bed and stares at the wall, and there's nothing you can do or say to get any kind of reaction out of him. Some days he's like that. Some days he's awake, responsive... and has no clue who I am." Steve looked out the window for a moment, then back at Clint. "I was hoping it would be one of his good days."

"Maybe tomorrow," Clint said, because he wasn't sure what else to say. Steve had said that Bucky had enlisted, so presumably he'd been deployed and that's where he'd gotten injured – lost his arm and apparently his mind with it. Clint wondered if it was actual brain damage, or if he was just pissed off and depressed and suffering from PTSD and all of the other shit that apparently went along with being a soldier these days. (Well, probably not just these days. They'd called it different things, but post-traumatic stress had existed for a long time.)

"Yeah, maybe," Steve said.

"Do you want to stop somewhere, get something to eat?" Clint asked. "I'll pay this time."

"Thanks," Steve said, "but no thanks. I don't have much of an appetite." He smiled crookedly, apologetic.

"That's all right," Clint said. "Another time. I owe you for lunch the other... week, I guess, now."

"You don't owe me anything," Steve said. "That's what friends are for."

"Exactly," Clint said. "So another time."

"Okay." Steve smiled again, and it actually touched his eyes this time, if only for a second. "I should be getting home anyway, make sure everything is okay there."

"Sharon?"

"Yeah." Steve shook his head. "Her mom, anyway. When it rains, it pours, you know?"

"I know," Clint said. He drove Steve to his house and dropped him off. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Steve said. "I'll need it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember who it was who wanted to know what happened to Bucky in this world, but whoever it was - SORRY (not sorry).
> 
> Also, happy (belated?) birthday to [Precious93](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Precious93/pseuds/Precious93)!


	31. Chapter 31

"Isn't it a little early to start planning for the summer?" Jessica asked. "It's still..."

"It's _only_ three months away," Clint said. "And you don't have to make any firm plans. Steve just asked me to talk to everyone about their plans for the summer. I guess they've given him a little bit more responsibility at the camp, and he's trying to make sure that he gets the best crew that he can. Which, apparently, is us."

"We have done it before," Natasha said. "So we have experience."

"And if we're being maybe a little egotistical – egotistic? anyway, if we're thinking a lot of ourselves – then I would say that we did a pretty kick-ass job last year," Bobbi added. "So it makes sense that he would want us back."

"Exactly," Clint said. "And he thought that with everyone going off to college next year, we would want to make as much money as we could, either to cover school costs or—"

The door banged open, and the conversation stopped. "Hey," Sam said. "Sorry. You don't have to stop on account of me." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Unless you're talking about me. Then yeah, you should probably stop. Unless you're talking about how awesome I am. In which case, do go on." He grinned. "Or if you're planning a surprise party for me, but I gotta tell you, my birthday was months ago so it would either be really late or really early."

Several sets of eyes rolled, but not Clint's. If he didn't mention it, Steve probably would anyway. It seemed like they had struck up something of a friendship during the musical, so it would make sense. And Sam had lots of energy. "What are you doing this summer?" he asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. "I don't really have any big plans yet. My parents might decide that we're going somewhere – get pulled off to a mission in Timbukthree or something – but right now, it seems like I'll just be hanging around here. Why?"

"Because Steve is looking to recruit people to work at a summer camp," Clint said. "I thought you might be interested in applying."

"What kind of summer camp?"

"Just... a camp?" Clint wasn't sure what he meant by the question.

"Like, day camp, overnight camp, sports camp, church camp?"

"Oh." Clint shook his head. "It's just during the day, and there's no real focus or theme."

"Until we give it one," Bobbi said. "But it's going to be hard to top Hogwarts last year."

"You worked there?" Sam asked.

"Last summer," Bobbi said. "A lot of us did. Some of us – Clint, Nat – worked there the summer before as well, and they lived to tell the tale. But yeah, last summer we decided to divide the kids up into four groups – houses – and have them do a competition all summer to see who would win the House Cup. Turned out it was a great way to motivate kids to be good, and also a good way to punish them without having to do, like, time out. Losing your house five points didn't make you very popular. Trouble is, I haven't been able to come up with something new for this year, and I don't think we should do the same thing two years in a row, even if it worked. The novelty might wear off."

"And we are not doing Hunger Games," Natasha said, with a glance that was maybe a little bit of a glare in Jessica's direction.

"There's too many groups for that, anyway," Bobbi said. "Everything else aside, it would be harder to keep track of twelve groups than it was to keep track of four. But yeah, kids fighting to the death for the amusement of the government is _probably_ not the best plan?"

"You're no fun," Jessica said to no one in particular. 

"Are there any other books like that, though, that have a _friendly_ competition?" Clint asked. "I'm not really the one to ask. I haven't read too many books." 

"I dunno," Sam said. "But Harry Potter was good for six books, so –"

"There were seven books," Jessica corrected.

"Like I said, Harry Potter was good for _six_ books, so I don't see why you couldn't do it again a second year, as long as you came up with something new to make it interesting. Like..."

"The Triwizard Tournament!" he and Bobbi said in unison, and then looked at each other and grinned.

"Except it would have to be four, not three," Clint said. "It's not fair to leave one house out."

"It wouldn't necessarily be by the houses, though," Bobbi said. "But I see your point. And we wouldn't want the same champion for each competition, because that puts too much pressure on one kid. But if we did, say, a competition event every Friday, then the kids – or staff, or Head of House, however we wanted to do it – could nominate one kid for that week to be that house's champion for the week, based on..."

"Exemplifying the virtues of their house," Sam said. "Except I don't think we actually want anyone exemplifying the virtues of Slytherin."

Natasha's look at him was scathing. "Of course not. Why we would want children to show ambition, resourcefulness, cunning and loyalty to peers?"

"I was thinking more about the whole blood purity racism thing," Sam said. "And the fact that they are slave owners."

"Hogwarts is slave owner," Natasha said. "Nowhere it says that only Slytherins have house elves. Old houses, old families have them. There are old families in all houses. There are probably blood purists in all houses. We don't know, because story is filtered through one set of eyes, and all of Slytherin is shown as being the same as a few who are maybe not so good. You want to say all Slytherin is racist, then I say that Hufflepuff is made of leftovers no one wants, Ravenclaw is snobs, and Gryffindor is bullies who think they are gods. Look at Weasley twins. Everyone laughs, but they are experimenting with candies that make people sick!"

Sam held up his hands. "Whoa, okay."

"Meet the Head of Slytherin house," Bobbi said. "And we were pretty careful to make sure that all of the houses were made to be considered equally good. Since we're not _actually_ magical, the whole pureblood thing didn't come up."

Sam nodded. "What about you?"

"I was Head of Ravenclaw, and Clint of Hufflepuff. Carol was Head of Gryffindor. Will she be coming back this summer?" Bobbi looked at Clint, then at Jessica.

"I don't know," Jessica said. "Her plans are pretty... up in the air." The look on her face made it readily apparent that there was something going on, some situation that she wasn't happy about, but of course she didn't elaborate. 

"So we scrub all of the houses clean," Sam said. 

"Yes," Bobbi said. "We're dealing with a more idealized Hogwarts, because let's face it, the books have problems. Everything has problems. And even more than in the books, there was interaction between the houses, because even though you were assigned to a house, you mostly did activities with your age group, which meant that they were all mixed together. If I remember correctly, there were some arguments about whose house was better, and there was definitely a heightened rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, because, well, the kids had read the books or seen the movies, but mostly we managed to keep things friendly."

"Who ended up winning the House Cup?" Sam asked.

Clint grinned. "Hufflepuff. And we're going to win again this year."

"You keep thinking that," Natasha said, smirking. 

"Pride goeth before the fall," Bobbi said. "Or however that quote goes."

"If Carol doesn't come back this year, can I take over Gryffindor?" Sam asked.

"If you want that bunch of hard-headed look before they leap rabble-rousers, that's fine with me," Bobbi said, grinning. "Because Ravenclaw is going to outsmart you all."

"So that's it, then?" Jessica asked. "That's what we're doing this summer?"

"If we get approval," Bobbi said. "Why not?"

Jessica shrugged. "Fine with me. I'm in the kitchen."

"Do you wear mismatched socks?" Sam asked.

"I am _not_ Dobby," Jess snapped. 

"Okay, okay," Sam said, holding up his hands again. "You might want to learn to take a joke at some point."

"You might want to learn to be funny at some point," she responded. 

Sam, wisely, gave up. A minute later Mr. Coulson came in, and they started their not-a-support-group meeting, which these days mostly centered around planning for the future, as they all nervously awaited their college acceptance (well, _hopefully_ acceptance) letters. 

That night Clint went out to grab food with Steve after tutoring. After they'd taken a few bites, satisfying their appetites for at least a few minutes, he told him that it seemed like pretty much everyone from last year was on board to come back this year, and that they were thinking of doing Hogwarts again, but this time with the added element of something like the Triwizard Tournament to keep things interesting.

"Sounds good," Steve said. "There will still be a lot of details to work out, but if you guys can maybe come up with some ideas of events that we could do, even if you don't have all of the details, that would be great. The more I can present when I meet with the director, the more likely we are to get approval."

"Sure," Clint said. "I'll let people know, have them write some stuff down. It seems like Bobbi is pretty gung-ho about it again, so I'm sure she'll come up with some good things." He paused, then asked, "Are we going to be doing any field trips this year that maybe we should work in somehow?"

"I don't know," Steve said. "Most likely, but I don't have the details yet."

"Okay. Well, we can always figure that out later. Jess says she's not sure if Carol is coming back... or that's what she implied, anyway. But Sam said he would take over Gryffindor if she didn't."

"You invited Sam?" Steve asked. 

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"No," Steve said. "Not a problem at all. I just hadn't actually thought of it."

"You've had a lot on your mind," Clint said. "How is everything?"

"If by everything, you mean Bucky... he was okay today," Steve said. "He actually seemed to remember some of the past, remember that we were friends." He smiled, but Clint could hear the sigh behind it even without actually being able to hear it. "A couple of days ago, he thought I was there to kill him, so it was an improvement."

"Why would he think that?" Clint asked.

"I don't know, and it doesn't really work to ask. I guess it's just paranoia?" Steve paused, and Clint didn't know what to say, so he just waited to see if Steve was going to say anything else. "Along with the shrapnel that took his arm, he suffered some brain damage, I guess, and although they say that it hasn't actually affected his cognition – he can still _think_ just fine, like he could still solve complex math problems as well as he ever could, things like that – there's been damage to his memory, and also to his emotions? Maybe it's PTSD, maybe it's something more. They're still trying to sort it out. But I think there's a lot that either they don't know or that they're not telling me."

"That sucks," Clint said, knowing that it was an understatement. "Is there any chance he'll recover?"

"Completely? Probably not," Steve said. "But... maybe. At least some. He should get better. That's what they keep saying. 'He'll get better as long as he wants to get better.'"

"But what if he doesn't want to?" Clint said.

"I don't know," Steve said, almost too quietly for Clint to hear.

"What about school? Any word?"

"Not yet," Steve said. "Probably within the next couple of weeks, though. Then we're going to have some big decisions to make."

"What's going on with Sharon? Or I guess Sharon's mom is more the issue."

"She's getting flakier and less reliable," Steve said. "Which is saying something, given the fact that she was never really reliable in the first place. We found out that she left Sharon alone with some guy that she'd just met, just disappeared for most of a day, and—"

Clint's stomach clenched. "Sharon's okay, right?" He didn't want to think about the alternative, but he couldn't help thinking about it. "The guy—"

"Was actually a pretty good guy," Steve said. "After about six hours of watching cartoons, he finally asked Sharon if there was anyone she could call, because he needed to get to work. Luckily, Peggy had made Sharon memorize her phone number, so she went and got her. The guy had woken up to find Sharon's mom gone, and he said he thought at first that she'd just run out to the store or something, but then when she wasn't back in an hour and wasn't answering her phone, he started to wonder. He wasn't about to leave Sharon alone, so he stuck around for as long as he could."

"And Sharon says nothing happened?"

"Sharon's fine," Steve said. "Well, as fine as you can be when your mom leaves you with a stranger. But no, nothing happened."

"Did her mom show back up?"

"Twelve hours after she originally left, yeah. With no excuse, really, or at least not one that was actually acceptable. I took Sharon out for ice cream while she and Peggy screamed at each other, and Peggy said that if this kept happening, someone was going to call Child Protective Services on her, and Sharon was going to get taken away. Then her mom said, 'Good. I'm sick of her anyway.'" He just let the words hang for a moment while he took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and Clint wondered how he could swallow around the lump in his throat that he couldn't imagine wasn't there, given that Clint wasn't even in the middle of the situation and he wasn't sure he could have forced anything into or out of his mouth at that moment.

"She took it back a minute later," Steve said. "She said she was just tired, frustrated, but... I don't think she was actually kidding. I think she's overwhelmed, and even though Sharon is such a good kid, she's also such a _smart_ kid I think her mom feels like she's struggling to keep up, and... I'm afraid next time she takes off maybe she won't come back."

"Has Peggy actually talked to her about getting custody of her?" Clint asked. "I know that's kind of a big step for both of you, but..."

"But it's not fair to Sharon to be in such an unstable environment," Steve said. "After her sister said that, Peggy said that if that was true, then fine, let Sharon stay with us. That was when she took it back. So she wasn't going for it, but I wonder if it was in the heat of the moment, and maybe when she really thinks about it, she'll realize that Sharon is maybe better off."

"Where is Sharon now?" Clint asked. 

"Our house," Steve said. "Probably in our bed, because she's started to have nightmares."

"You need to get her out," Clint said. "Otherwise, it's only a matter of time before something bad happens."

"I know," Steve said. "I just haven't been sure how to bring it up with Peggy. Or whether we would be allowed to take her, given our age and financial circumstances. I think we would have to get certified as foster parents or something, and—"

"I don't know if they require that if it's a family member taking in a kid," Clint said, "but I'll ask the Sullivans. They would know."

"Thank you," Steve said. "That means a lot."

Clint shrugged. "She's a good kid. She deserves the best chance that she can get, and that's not always with the parents that you were born with." _I would know._ He didn't say the last part, but he knew that Steve would understand it anyway. "But... you're sure it's what you want to do? Like, absolutely sure?"

"Have you ever held a little girl who woke up from a nightmare where she was left all alone, and now she's begging you not to ever leave?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Clint said. "Not in the way you mean, but... yeah. Kind of. Close enough." Which was more than he or Natasha had probably ever really said to anyone about what the early parts of their relationship were like, but it was true nonetheless.

Steve looked at him for a minute, then nodded. "Then you understand. It's not a matter of wanting. It's a matter of doing what's right. And there's nowhere she would be safer than with us."

Clint nodded. "I'll talk to the Sullivans. Is it okay if I give them your number? They might want to talk to you directly, make sure nothing gets lost in translation."

"That's fine," Steve said. "I really appreciate it."

"What are friends for?" Clint asked. 

Steve smiled. "I think we've gone beyond friends at this point," he said. "You're family now."

Clint turned the idea over in his head, then nodded. "Yeah, okay," he said. "I can live with that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should this have been an Easter chapter? Possibly, but at the time I wrote it, I had completely forgotten Easter exists. So... yeah. Anyway, happy Easter to anyone who celebrates it!


	32. Chapter 32

"'Come on,' she said," Jessica grumbled. "'It'll be fun,' she said." She looked up from where the rack of balls, where she was systematically going from one to the next, trying to find one that fit her fingers and didn't weigh a ton. "I have news for you, Carol Danvers. This is _not_ fun. This is pretty much the _opposite_ of fun. I am wearing shoes that have been worn by probably _thousands_ of other people before me, getting who knows what weird foot funguses, and it is _not fun_."

Carol just laughed. "The fun hasn't started yet," she said. "For one thing, not everyone is here yet. For another, we haven't even started playing."

"I don't see how rolling a ball down a narrow strip of wood to knock down a bunch of white cones – or whatever – is ever going to be fun," Jessica grumbled. 

"You will the first time you actually do it," Carol said, in what Clint assumed was her best attempt at being reassuring, but it mostly sounded like she was trying not to laugh. He had to admit, he was kind of with Jessica – he really wasn't sure how this was supposed to be fun. But apparently it was a thing that normal kids sometimes did for their birthdays, and even though Carol was not exactly a kid anymore (she was turning nineteen) she had decided that this was what she wanted to do to celebrate her birthday. 'A blast from the past,' she'd said.

Judging by the number of people that were starting to arrive, maybe there was something to what she said, though. It seemed like the idea was pretty popular, although a lot of the crowd seemed to be a little bit older – college kids – and they all seemed to be gravitating towards the bar.

Natasha nudged him. "Look, there is Bobbi." 

Clint looked, and yes, there she was, with Pepper a step behind, and then there was Steve and Peggy, and then Sam, and pretty soon the entire group was gathered, putting on their rented shoes and finding balls. 

"I recommend getting a brightly colored one," Carol said. "When they turn the lights out—"

"They're turning out the _lights_?" Jessica interrupted. "How are we supposed to see if—"

"They don't turn out _all_ of the lights," Carol said. "And they turn on black lights – UV lights that glow basically purple, which makes anything white or neon glow. You'll be able to see, don't worry."

And it was true. They could see the lanes, and the pins. The trouble for Clint was that he couldn't see much of anything else... like people's mouths as they spoke. He would see flashes of teeth, and the whites of their eyes, and not a whole lot more. With the increasing volume of the place as people began to play, and someone cranked up the music, he pretty quickly gave up on actually following any sort of conversation that was happening around him. He just paid attention to the board that showed their scores (which employed some sort of incomprehensible system that made absolutely no sense, at least when you knocked all of the pins down) to know when it was his turn to go.

He wasn't a very good bowler, he discovered. He wasn't _terrible_... but he wasn't good. He would line himself up, and throw the ball, and it would seem to be going exactly where he wanted it to... right until the last minute, when it would veer off and hit one side or the other, and he couldn't figure out why. After the first five frames, his score was one of the lowest on the board, and he could feel Jessica's eyes drilling into his back. 

"Is just a game," Natasha said, and signed so that he could know what was happening, too. 

"Seriously," Bobbi said, and Natasha kept interpreting, and Clint could have kissed her for it, and would later. "It's no big deal. It's just for fun."

"Losing isn't fun," Jessica snapped. "Only losers... lose." She grimaced. "You know what I mean."

"For the next game we can switch up the teams if you want," Carol said. "You can be on my team."

"Oh, how magnanimous of you," Jessica said, her expression sour. Natasha had to spell out the word. 

_Looks like that SAT prep book that Fury got her did some good, even if she pitched a fit about taking the test,_ Clint said, and Natasha snorted. 

For once, thankfully, Jessica didn't glare at them and accuse them of talking about her behind her back in front of her face. Which was good, because there was no way that Clint would have been able to keep a straight face if she had.

At the end of the first game, Carol's team had beaten theirs pretty soundly. Apparently Carol and Steve were actually pretty good at this bowling thing, and Peggy had what she claimed was beginner's luck. 

"We're all beginners, too," Clint said. "Where's our luck?"

Peggy shrugged. "I couldn't tell you," she said. "But if you want, Jess and I can switch."

Jessica considered for a moment, then nodded. "All right."

"Traitor," Steve teased Peggy as she moved to the little computer to change up the names on each of the lists. She just smiled, obviously not taking him seriously. 

In the end, it didn't really help. Peggy's luck held, but the rest of them were still mediocre enough that the other team managed to beat them out in the end, although for a little while it looked like they might actually have stood a chance. 

"We still have one more game paid for," Carol said. "But why don't we get something to eat first?"

So they relocated themselves to the bar area, which also served things like pizza, hamburgers and fries... all of it greasy and barely edible, but they were teenagers and hungry and so it didn't really matter how good something was, they would eat it anyway. Even Jess at the pizza that they ordered, complaining the entire time that she could do so much better.

After the pizza, there was a cake. It was in the shape of a giant cupcake, and Jess had been so happy to find the right pan for it online. She said it was more fun than a regular old layer cake, and who didn't like cupcakes? She stuck candles into it, and Steve teased Carol about all of the little flames setting off the smoke alarm, even though they all knew that he was older. She just stuck her tongue out at them and blew them out, and then they cut the cake and served it out.

"There's something I wanted to tell you guys," Carol said, when most of them had their mouths full. Natasha had to put her fork down to return to interpreter duty, because the bar area wasn't any better lit than the lanes. "I've finally decided what I'm going to do about college and everything."

"Don't," Jessica said. "Not now."

"Why not?" Carol asked. "Everyone is here now."

"Because this is supposed to be a party," Jess said. "We're supposed to be having _fun_."

"And you think I'm going to ruin that?" Carol countered.

"I _know_ you're going to ruin that," Jessica replied. 

"It's kind of too late now," Bobbi said. "Whether she tells us or not, now it's all we're going to think about."

She had a point, Clint thought, but he didn't say anything. The last thing he wanted was to be caught in the middle of an argument between Jess and Carol. Apparently whatever the announcement was, Jess already knew about it... which was probably better than Carol springing it – whatever it was – on her along with the rest of them. Maybe she'd learned something about being in a relationship somewhere along the way.

Jessica glared, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "Go ahead, then, if you want to ruin everyone's night," she said sullenly.

Clint saw a flicker of uncertainty in Carol's eyes, and when she opened her mouth, no sound came out.

"Go ahead," Steve said. "What have you decided about college?"

"There's no way that I'm going to be able to go," Carol said. "Even if I go to community college for the first two years, there's no way that I can afford it without ending up with huge amounts of debt, which I really don't want to do if I can avoid it. That's not how I want to start my life, you know?"

"There's always scholarships," Pepper said. "Right?"

Carol shrugged. "Not really," she said. "I mean, maybe, if you're willing to apply for everything there is, and hope that someone comes through, but I'm a middle-class-ish white girl. The girl thing I've got going in my favor, but..." She shrugged. "I've looked. I just don't think there's enough to get me where I need to be."

"So what are you going to do?" Steve asked. 

Carol took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm going to enlist," she said. "Then, once I've served my term, the military will pay for college for me."

No one said anything. No one moved, and Clint wasn't sure that anyone even _breathed_ in the moments after that announcement. They all just sat there, staring at Carol, dumbstruck.

"I told you," Jessica said after a minute, breaking the stunned silence. "I told you you would ruin everyone's night."

"I haven't—" Carol started, but then she looked around, and sighed. "I didn't want to."

"Are you _sure_ this is what you want to do?" Pepper asked. "I mean, it's admirable and all, wanting to serve your country, but..."

"I know," Carol said. "I've heard it all before, believe me, or read it, or..." She mashed a bite of cake with her fork. No one was eating anymore; Clint was pretty sure everyone had lost their appetite. "But I can't think of any other way to do it. The longer I stay here, the more I just... die inside."

"Better than dying _outside_ ," Jessica snapped. "Better than going off to war and getting yourself killed."

"I won't say that's not going to happen," Carol said softly, "because I can't promise that. But I'm going into the Air Force, not the army, so... maybe it's a smaller chance?" She frowned, chewing her lip. "I want to fly. I've always wanted to fly. This is my chance, and... I have to take it. Because if I don't... it's just as likely that I'll die here as wherever they send me."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Jessica told her, glaring. 

"It's not bullshit," Carol snapped back, and Clint was certain that this wasn't the first time they'd had this argument. It would certainly explain why he hadn't seen Carol at Mr. Fury's house as much lately. "I'm an addict, Jess. An alcoholic. And the longer I'm here, feeling like I'm getting nowhere, feeling like I'm just going to get stuck in a life that I never wanted and can't stand, the—"

"Oh, you can't stand me now?" Jessica interrupted.

"That's not what I said," Carol argued, trying to keep her voice low so that they didn't attract the attention of everyone around them. "You – all of you, but especially you, Jess – are the only good things about this place. But I can't do community college anymore. I can't. And there's no hope of me being able to go anywhere else without someone else paying for it, and despite my grades in high school, I'm not brilliant like Tony or Bruce or Bobbi or Pepper. No one is going to hand me a free ride, or anything close to it. Without that, I really don't have a future."

"You have _me_ ," Jessica said. 

"I do," Carol said. "Except you're going to New York next year for culinary school. So I don't have you, either, unless I follow you down there, but then I'll be starting all over in a place where I don't even have connections, and I _still_ won't have any hope. And that's what drives me to drink, Jess. That's what I've been trying to tell you this whole time, and you don't want to hear it, or you don't want to understand it, and I don't know how else to explain it. If I stay here, or if I go anywhere, without any kind of clear plan of what I'm going to do, without the possibility of a future somewhere on the horizon... I'm going to start drinking again. Every day it's a little harder to resist. Right now, all I want - _all_ I want – is to go up to the bar and charm the bartender into giving me a beer. Just one – that would be enough – just one beer. Right? Except it wouldn't. It might make me feel better for a minute, maybe even an hour, but it doesn't last. It never lasts. So I would have another. And another after that. And eventually it would kill me. Maybe through alcohol poisoning, more likely because I'll be stupid and drive drunk, and if I do that, there's a very real chance that I'll kill other people along with me... or that I won't die at all, but someone else will, and I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life."

"If you're in the Air Force, you'll kill people, too, and you'll have to live with _that_ ," Jessica said. "You keep conveniently forgetting that part."

"It's a possibility," Carol said. "I know that. But it's not an inevitability. I have to believe that it's not. Drinking, though... death would be inevitable there. Mine or someone else's." Her voice dropped. "Maybe yours. I can't take that chance. So I have to take another."

"Then you're doing it alone," Jessica said. "I'm not going to sit back and watch you throw away your life." She got up and left, practically throwing her shoes over the counter at the poor kid in charge of it, walking out in sock feet with her regular shoes in her hands.

Clint didn't know where she thought she was going. Carol had brought her here; she didn't have any way to get home but one of them driving, unless she called Mr. Fury to pick her up, and he would probably want an explanation as to why, and he wasn't sure that she would be willing to give one.

_Be right back,_ he signed to Natasha, and got up to follow her, remembering to switch his shoes but asking the shoe guy to just hold the shoes for him, because he would be back in just a minute.

Jessica was standing outside, her arms wrapped around herself, her head down. 

"Go the fuck away," she growled. "I don't want to talk to you, or anyone. Just fuck off."

"I don't want to talk either," Clint said. "I just came out to unlock my car so you would have a place to sit if you needed one." He wasn't going to leave the keys with her; he wasn't stupid and he really didn't want his car stolen, even if he knew that he would be able to get it back later, and probably in the same shape it had been in. She didn't have her license yet, but he didn't think she would care much about that. She was an okay driver anyway. She would just be in trouble if she got caught driving on her own.

He did as he said, and when he passed her again, he thought he heard her mumble, 'Thanks.' But he might have just been hearing things.

When he went back into the alley and retrieved his shoes, putting the rental ones back on, he found that the rest of the group had packed up the leftover cake, and seemed to be uncertain as to whether they should play their final game.

"It's already paid for," Carol said. "But I understand if everyone just wants to go." She forced a smile, but it didn't come anywhere near her eyes. "I really didn't mean to ruin my own birthday party. I guess... I thought I'd gotten her to understand, but I guess I was wrong. I guess I'm as much of an idiot as she thinks I am." 

"You're not an idiot," Steve said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, and then he turned so that Clint couldn't see his mouth anymore, and Natasha stopped signing.

_Is Jessica okay?_ , she asked.

_No,_ Clint said, then, _I don't know. I just went out to unlock my car so that she can sit in it if she wants._ He looked at Natasha. _Did you know about this?_

She shook her head. _I knew that something was going on between them, something pretty big, but I didn't know what._

_Do you think that Jess meant it?_ , Clint asked. _About it being over between them?_

_I don't know,_ Natasha said. _I think maybe she did._

Clint sighed. It made sense, but at the same time, it didn't. Because obviously Jessica was breaking things off because she cared about Carol, and couldn't stand the thought of losing her. Which made it a little bit like cutting off one's nose to spite one's face. But he could see where she was coming from, because if you thought that you were going to lose someone anyway, why not at least be the one in control of the how and the when and the why?

On the other hand, though, if she broke up with Carol, and then something happened to her, either while she was enlisted, or before that if she started drinking again... would she ever be able to forgive herself? Would she be able to stop thinking about the possibility that she had somehow played a part in it? Especially if there was alcohol involved.

Maybe he was projecting, but he just couldn't shake the thought that whatever decision Jessica made, it was going to be a bad one... or at least, a painful one. If he was in the same situation, if Natasha decided she was going to do something that was potentially deadly, and in a way that wouldn't allow him to follow, what would he do? Would he let her go? Not that he would have a choice in it, exactly, but... would he _let her go_? _Could_ he let her go?

_I'm not going anywhere,_ she signed. _Not anywhere like that. Wherever I go... so can you._

_Maybe,_ Clint said. _We still don't know for sure._

_Even if we don't get into the same school,_ she said, _if we're in the same place, the same city, we can make it work._

_I want to believe that,_ Clint said. 

_Then believe it,_ she replied. _I mean it. I love you as much today as I did... not the first day we met, I didn't love you yet then... but I don't think it took very long. It took me a lot longer to admit it than to feel it, when I look back._

_I know what you mean,_ Clint said. 

_So don't worry. Whatever happens, it happens to both of us._

Clint pulled her into his arms. For a second she tensed – he'd moved too quickly, held her too tight – but then she relaxed, wrapping her arms around him and leaning in close, tipping her face up for a kiss, which he gave to her gladly, and gratefully. He wasn't as sure about the future as she was, but he was willing to lean on her certainty for the time being. 

"So are we going to play or not?" Jessica demanded, and everyone turned to look at her in surprise. She just glared back at them until they started setting up the game.

"You okay?" Clint asked Jess, because no one else seemed to know what to say to her.

"No," she said. "I'm not even close to okay. But it's her birthday, and I'm not going to ruin it. What kind of a shitty person would do that?"

He knew what she was getting at, knew that the words were meant to cut, and he hope that Carol didn't hear them. "Okay," he said, because what else was he supposed to say? "Whose team are you going to be on this time?"

"The winning one," she told him, which didn't answer the question at all. But he wasn't about to argue, and anyway, she'd walked away, stalking up to Carol and kissing her hard. Which meant... he didn't know what. But it wasn't for him to figure out. He just hoped that the two of them could.


	33. Chapter 33

"Have you given any thought to what you want for your birthday?" Mr. Fury asked. They were all (the principal-turned-foster father, Natasha, Clint, Jess and – somewhat surprisingly, given how pissed Jessica still was about the birthday announcement – Carol) sitting at the dinner table, finishing up plates of a pasta dish that Jessica had seen on Top Chef and decided to replicate. Clint wasn't sure if she'd actually succeeded, but if it wasn't restaurant quality, it was still good, and anyway, he was hungry.

Natasha shook her head. "I don't want anything," she said. "Is just a day."

"It's your eighteenth birthday," Mr. Fury said. "That's a pretty big deal. It means you're legally an adult."

"So?" Natasha looked up from her dish and fixed her eyes on him. "I have not been child in very long time. I don't need birthday to tell me now I am grown up." Before he could say anything else, she added, "I am not American. I can't vote. That is most important thing that comes with being eighteen, yes? It does not apply. So is just a day, and I don't want anything."

What she wanted, Clint knew, wasn't anything that Mr. Fury could give her. What she wanted was some kind of certainty for the future, and currently that hinged on whether or not she got into college. Not that he could imagine that she wouldn't, but she was still on edge about it, waiting for the letter, or email, or whatever was going to come. 

Clint had already gotten one. A quick form letter telling him thanks but no thanks. He'd considered not telling her about it, but in the end he had, because it didn't seem right to keep it from her, and she would find out eventually. He still had a few out, and there was always community college, which did admissions on a rolling basis, so he could just apply whenever, and according to Carol, they would take anyone. So it would just depend on what community he ended up in, and that depended on where Natasha went.

"Okay," Mr. Fury said, giving up, or at least giving in for the moment. "If you think of anything, let me know."

"What do you want to do for your party?" Carol asked. "You know you have to have one."

"Were you not listening?" Natasha asked. "I told you, I don't want anything. No gift, no party, nothing. Is not important."

"It is, though," Carol said. "I know that we just had a party for me, and I know that I kind of ruined it for everyone, so this is a second chance. It might be one of the last times that we can get everyone together. It won't be long before people start going their separate ways, even more than they already have."

"Whose fault is that?" Jessica asked, her tone acid. 

"It's no one's _fault,_ " Carol said. "You're going away, too. It's possible I'll be going the farthest – maybe even probable – but I'm not the only one leaving. So don't blame this all on me."

Jessica's face twisted, and she got up and began clearing the table. Natasha pushed her chair back as well. "You cooked," she said. "You don't clean up."

"I can clear the damned table," Jessica growled. "I can clean up if I want to. You don't get to tell me what to do."

Clint could see that Natasha's was fighting not to snap back. "I am not telling you what to do. I am saying, we can do it. You did work to make the food, you don't have to clean up after." 

"Maybe I want to," Jess said. "Maybe I want you all to just go and let me take care of it."

"I'll help," Carol said, but was stopped halfway out of her seat by the look that Jess threw in her direction.

"What makes you think that you're not included in 'you all'? Just go away. I can handle it myself."

Natasha dumped her plate in the sink, careful not to bump into Jessica as she did so. "If you change your mind, let us know," she said, and the offer was genuine even if her tone was cold. "I'll be upstairs."

Clint followed her up, and sat down on the edge of the bed after she threw herself down on it, settling beside her when she reached up and tugged him down, taking his face between her hands and kissing him roughly. For a minute... probably more than a minute, but time had a way of going a bit slipshod when one was caught up in these kinds of things... he just let himself get lost in it, but finally he had to pull away to catch his breath, and she collapsed back against her pillow.

_I'm sick of her being angry all the time,_ Natasha signed. _I'm sick of being yelled at for things that aren't my fault, aren't in my control. I understand why she's upset, but that doesn't mean she should get to take it out on anyone who so much as looks at her funny._

_I'm sorry,_ Clint said, because he wasn't sure what else to say. _I get where she's coming from, but yeah, it's not a free pass to treat other people like shit._

There was a long pause as they both looked off in opposite directions, gathering their thoughts or maybe deciding whether there was anything more to say. Finally Natasha touched his hand and signed, _You wouldn't do that, would you?_

For a second he didn't understand, and then he couldn't help smiling. It was a bit lopsided, but a smile nonetheless. _I'm deaf,_ he pointed out. _They wouldn't take me._

Natasha's face twisted, presumably in annoyance and most likely at herself. _If you weren't?_

_I still wouldn't,_ Clint said. _I'm not very good at being ordered around._

_Neither is Carol,_ Natasha pointed out. _If they treat her as... less because she's a woman, she's going to blow up._

_Or work twice as hard to prove them wrong,_ Clint said. _Or maybe both. But she's lived with a family that's pretty male-oriented for her entire life. From what she's said, living with her dad has already given her an idea of what it's like to be disrespected just for being female. Isn't this whole thing about how she can't go to college because her parents can only afford to send one of the kids and they decided that it would make more sense to send one of the boys, even though she gets better grades, because there's no point in a woman getting higher education when they're just going to end up married and having kids?_

_But that's not going to happen!_ , Natasha protested. _**Especially** not with Carol!_

_I know that, and you know that, and **Carol** knows that... but I don't know how much of anything that her parents know, and I don't think it would matter anyway. Maybe she's exaggerating, but it seems like they're pretty stuck in their ways and gender roles._ He sat up to make it easier to continue the conversation. _Anyway... she's falling apart here. If she doesn't get away, develop some kind of plan, have some kind of structure... she's going to self-destruct. I know she's here all the time, or used to be, but... I've had to go get her in the middle of the night because she drove her car into a ditch because she was drunk. It's only a matter of time before it's a phone pole or something, and she or someone else ends up paying for it._

_She stopped drinking,_ Natasha said.

_And then she started again, and then she stopped again. People... alcoholics... it's always there. The temptation to drink is always there, and when the going gets tough, sometimes they fall back on old habits – like we saw – and if they drink as much as they used to, but they don't have the tolerance that they built up anymore because they've been sober for however long..._ Clint shrugged. _It doesn't usually end well. A person can think they've found rock bottom only to discover that there's farther to fall._

_So you think that she's doing the right thing?_ , Natasha asked, and Clint couldn't read her expression to know what the right answer to that question was in her eyes, which left him no choice but to be honest. Not that he wouldn't have been anyway... probably... but he was trying to avoid this turning into an argument about someone else's life that they really, in the end, had no control over. Especially when he was pretty sure that they would be having it just so they could avoid talking about their own uncertain future.

_I think that she's making the best choice that she can out of the options available to her,_ Clint said. _Whether it's the right one or not... How do any of us know that we're making the right decision, really? Sometimes we make choices and it turns out that it's a mistake. Sometimes we make different choices that feel like a mistake at the time but turn out being the right one in the end._ He shrugged again. _At least she knows what she's doing._

She sighed. _We should hear soon,_ she said. _This week._

_You don't have anything to worry about,_ Clint said. _Your freshman year grades maybe weren't great at first but they improved enough that you were able to skip a grade, and—_

_Getting in isn't the end of it,_ Natasha said. _Not for me. I still have to worry about getting a visa so they'll allow me to stay, for one thing. I can't stay on the one that I have now indefinitely, and maybe not even long enough to become a naturalized citizen. I need to get a student visa so that they can't just decide to send me back._

_You'll get one,_ Clint said, with more confidence than he felt. It wasn't as if they had a reason to _not_ give her one, and anyway, wouldn't the FBI or whatever other powers that be want to help her out? She'd helped them, after all; it wouldn't be right for them to just abandon her now, would it? 

And there was another option, too, now that they would both be over the age of eighteen. Not a great option, because that's now how he wanted things to go down, but... he was an American citizen, and it wasn't as if they didn't love each other, so if it came to it, why not? 

(Okay, so there were a thousand reasons why not, starting with the fact that they were barely more than kids and shouldn't be making those kinds of huge life decisions, but if it kept her here long enough for them to decide if it was really the right thing, then why shouldn't they?)

She was looking at him curiously, and he wondered what he had missed. _Sorry,_ he said. _Just... thinking._

She nodded, and didn't ask, and he was glad of that. _Do you think I should do something for my birthday?_ , she asked. _Everyone seems to think that I should._

_You don't have to,_ Clint said. _Although if Tony was around, you probably wouldn't be given much choice._ He smiled wryly. _He probably won't surprise you with a car, anyway._

_I don't need a car like you did,_ Natasha pointed out. _So no, probably not._

_It's up to you whether you want to have a party or not,_ Clint said. _But Carol has a point, that there might not be too many more opportunities for everyone to get together._

_But it wouldn't **be** everyone,_ Natasha countered. _I don't think Tony and Bruce will be done with their semester yet, and Thor won't be back either. So that's half of the original group, or nearly, right there._

_They're not so far away that they couldn't come back if we asked,_ Clint said. _At least probably not. If you had it on the weekend instead of your actual birthday. Even if it **does** fall during spring break for us._

_I just wish that we had more to celebrate than just me being a day older,_ Natasha said.

Clint wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he just pulled her into his arms, and for a while tried to forget everything outside of the two of them in the here and now.

On Wednesday, they got a call from Bobbi, looking for an update on whether they'd heard anything yet. "Nothing new," Clint told her. "What about you?" He figured the call had to be prompted by something more than just curiosity.

"I got my letter from my first choice," she said. 

"And?" he prompted. 

"I got in." Even with his dodgy ears, he could hear that she was smiling. Grinning, even. "And they're not giving me a full ride, but... I guess it turns out that dying at sixteen and living to tell the tale will get you some scholarship money. Or maybe it's my grades... who knows? But I got in, and I can afford to go, so... yeah."

"Congratulations," Clint said, and meant it. "So you'll be heading south?"

"Yeah, but not too far. A few... well, like eight... hours on the train or something like that. Nothing that will keep me from being able to visit." 

"That's awesome," Clint said. 

"You'll hear soon," Bobbi said. "Don't worry."

"It's not the hearing that I'm worried about," Clint said, then grimaced at the not-funny joke of the phrasing. "It's what it says that's concerning."

"You'll get in," Bobbi said. "It's not _just_ about grades, and yours aren't terrible, anyway. You'll be fine, and so will Natasha." 

"I hope so," Clint said. 

"Call me when you find out. It might even be today."

But it wasn't that day. Not for him, anyway. Natasha got one email, and it was an acceptance, but it wasn't a school that she was enthusiastic about going to, because it would take them out kind of to the middle of nowhere, and the program for what she wanted was good but not great. Still, it was something, and something was better than nothing.

Thursday was her birthday, and he'd thought that he would surprise her with breakfast in bed or something, but instead he woke up to her shaking his shoulder. _Check your email,_ she said. _Now._

_Why?_ He was still half asleep, eyes bleary as he picked up his phone. _What's going on?_

_I have mine,_ she said. _See if you got yours._

_What does yours say?_ , he asked. _Did you get in?_

_I haven't opened it yet,_ she said. _Check!_

So he checked, and they opened the emails at the same time... and his heart sank even as he saw her smiling. He forced himself to smile back at her, even as he shook his head. _Congratulations!_ , he said, trying to show as much enthusiasm as he could muster. _I knew you would get in._

_But you didn't,_ she said. It wasn't a question. He guessed it must have shown on his face. _Is there still...?_

_There's one more,_ Clint said. _I have one more application still out, but... I don't know. It's a longshot. But like everyone says, I can do community college, show that I can do well at that, and then transfer._

Natasha's shoulders slumped. _I'm sorry._

Clint forced a smile. _I didn't really expect it to be any different,_ he said. _Don't worry about it. I'll be fine. Be happy for you. And happy birthday._ He leaned in to kiss her, and she accepted it, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it. _I'm going to go make us breakfast._

_I'll help,_ she said, and he didn't argue, since the whole surprise concept was already ruined. 

They worked in silence, and ate in silence, hardly looking at each other. As Clint was getting ready to clean up, his phone chimed, and the notification of a new email popped up. His stomach clenched when he saw where it was from. "Oh shit," he breathed. 

"What?" Natasha asked, or at least he assumed she did because he hadn't bothered to put in his hearing aids. 

"It's here."

It only took her a second to figure out what he was referring to. _Open it!_

He shook his head. _I can't._

_Fine, then I will,_ Natasha said, and before he could protest or try to stop her, she had grabbed his phone and tapped on the email, her eyes scanning the screen quickly. She shoved it in his face.

_Congratulations,_ it read, _and welcome to the class of 2019!_

"Oh shit," he said again. "Oh _shit_!"

Natasha grinned, and pulled him to her and kissed him, and grinned some more. _Okay,_ she said. _I think maybe **now** we have a party to plan._


	34. Chapter 34

Now that they had their acceptance letters, it really did start to feel like the beginning of the end. Going back to school after spring break felt more like a chore than it ever had, because suddenly none of it really felt like it mattered. 

"It still does," Pepper said. "They'll still look at your grades for the rest of the year, and if they slip too badly you might start off the year on academic probation or something. But..." She smiled, shrugged. "I know how you feel. I've known for months, and it's even been hard for _me_ to keep focused in the classes I don't care as much about."

"The fact that it's _finally_ spring doesn't help, either," Bobbi commented. "Saturday was pretty much the most perfect day I've ever experienced." She tipped her face up to the sun as if to make her point. They had gathered outside for lunch instead of staying cooped up in the cafeteria, and it felt a little bit like a picnic.

"I gotta say," Sam chimed in, "there's something to this whole living somewhere where you're not breathing in the exhaust of cars and everything every day. Especially when you can go out, walk in the grass... or at least _see_ grass... and enjoy the sun without worrying about whether it's going to start heating up the pavement and making you feel trapped in a – what's the word I'm looking for? Exothermic? – anyway, some kind of heat bubble."

"I'm ready to be done," Jessica said. "Seriously ready."

"We all are," Natasha said. "I am especially ready to be done with filling out papers and more papers and more papers." 

"Are they treating you like you're an international student?" Pepper asked. "I would imagine that's more of a hassle than normal."

"Some schools did when I applied, some did not. Where I am accepted, is... complicated. They understand is complicated, and they are working with me. Like they did not make me prove that I know how to speak English with test, so that was good." 

"You probably speak better English than half the kids in this school," Sam said. "Even if you have some kind of aversion to the words 'a' and 'the'."

Natasha looked at him, her head cocked. "They serve no purpose," she said. "I use them when I write, and I try to remember when I talk to teachers, but talking to you? Why there is need for them? You understand me perfectly fine without. They don't even exist in Russian."

"Seriously?" Sam asked. "I didn't know that."

"Now you do," Natasha said.

"What about you, Clint?" Bobbi asked. "Do you have to do a ton of paperwork?"

"I guess," Clint said. He hadn't actually really looked at the stuff that he'd been sent yet. He hadn't even told the Sullivans that he'd been accepted. He was sure that they would be happy for them, but didn't know what it would mean. Like, if he went away to school, they would stop getting money for him, right? They wouldn't be his foster parents anymore. So when it came time for school breaks, he wouldn't have anywhere to go.

And then there was the whole issue of where he would live while he was at school. The college had dorms, and obviously he could live there – the expectation seemed to be that he _would_ live there – but he didn't _want_ to live with a bunch of strangers, stuck in a room with another person he'd just met and who he didn't know anything about, and who didn't know anything about him. If he and Natasha were at the same school, maybe it would be all right, because even if the school wouldn't let them share a room (which was pretty much guaranteed) at least they might be in the same building and would see each other all the time. But they weren't, and that made him nervous.

They hadn't talked about it, though. He hadn't wanted to bring it up because Natasha was busy worrying about her visa and everything else. Mr. Fury was helping her, and whatever connections he had, and he'd told her not to worry about it, that it would all work out, but there was no actual guarantee of that, was there?

He'd thought about asking Mr. Fury to help him, too, but he probably had his hands full with Natasha and Jessica and the end of the school year. And the Sullivans wouldn't know anything about it, since he was the oldest foster kid they'd ever had. They'd never been through it before. His guidance counselor was probably the best choice, being the person who was supposed to help, y'know, guide him through this whole process, but he wasn't feeling it.

So after school he went to find Mr. Coulson.

"You got a minute?" he asked, sticking his head into the office.

"For you, Clint, I've got two," he said with a smile. "Come on in."

Clint went in and sat down. "I need help."

Mr. Coulson turned to face him more fully, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. "What can I help you with?"

"This whole college thing," Clint said. "I got a whole package of papers and I honestly don't know what to do with them, or what half of them mean. I know they accepted me, but then I still have to tell them that I'm actually coming, right?"

"That would be the first step, yes."

"But I don't know if I can afford to go," Clint said. "I don't know where I'm supposed to come up with the money."

"Did you fill out the financial aid application?" Mr. Coulson asked. 

"I think so," Clint said. "I'm pretty sure."

"Do you have the papers with you now?" he asked. Clint nodded. He'd stuffed them into his backpack as soon as they arrived so that his foster parents didn't see them and start asking questions. "Why don't I take a look?"

Clint pulled them out and handed them over, honestly relieved to have them out of his hands and into someone who actually knew something about how this whole thing worked. He watched as the social worker flipped through them, sorting them into a few different piles.

"All right," he said. "This is general stuff," pointing to the first pile, "and this is financial aid stuff. This is about housing, and these are more specific to you. Based on what I'm seeing here, they're actually offering you a pretty good scholarship. More – and forgive me for being frank – but more than I would have expected, with your academic record. But it's not actually an academic scholarship, so that's probably part of it."

"What's it for, then?" Clint asked.

"It seems to be something geared towards students with disabilities," Mr. Coulson said.

"I don't—" Clint said, but stopped at the look that the social worker gave him.

"You do, Clint," he said. "You get along fine – better than we probably have any right to expect – but you _do_ have a disability, and that entitles you to certain services. An interpreter, for one thing, if you want to have one."

"A what?"

Mr. Coulson's eyebrows went up. "An interpreter."

"I speak English!"

"A _sign language_ interpreter," Mr. Coulson said. "Someone who would attend classes with you, and sign everything that the instructor says, and presumably anyone else who was saying something meant for the entire class to hear, so that you are able to understand what's going on without having to constantly struggle to keep up."

"There are people who do that?" Clint asked. Somehow, it had never occurred to him. Obviously there were other people out there in the world who used sign language, otherwise it wouldn't exist for him to learn, but... it had been his thing, his and Natasha's, and sometimes he forgot that it existed outside of them, that it wasn't actually their own secret language. 

"Yes, there are people who do that," Mr. Coulson said. "If I had thought you would have accepted it, I would have offered for you to have one here. I probably should have, even though I was pretty sure that you would turn down the offer. But I think it would be useful for you to have in college, because it's really a different environment. You don't go to the same classes every day, and spend a lot of time reviewing. It's much more focused, much more accelerated. Most classes you attend twice a week for an hour and a half, two hours at a time, and that's it. If you miss something during one of those classes, it's unlikely that it's going to come back up again until you're reviewing for the end of the semester, and that's not a good time to realize that you missed something critical because the person next to you was talking and so you didn't hear with the professor was saying."

"Oh," Clint said. "I guess you have a point."

The social worker smiled. "Anyway, that's what this stack of papers is about here. Disability services, and also about the freshman academic assistance program that they are requiring you to participate in. No, it's not option, that's why I said requiring," he added before Clint could ask. "It doesn't mean they think you're dumb, it just means that they see that your academic record is a bit rocky, and they want to give you every chance possible to succeed, so they're going to give you extra support. I only looked over it briefly, but it looks like if you do well in your first semester, you may be exempt for the second semester, but you may find that it ends up being helpful and want to stick with it."

Clint nodded. He wasn't so sure, but... well, maybe. If he was going to make something of his life, maybe he needed to start letting people give him a helping hand once in a while. Maybe it was like with Natasha and her uncle, and how they'd finally hit the point where they realized that there was no way that they could handle it all on their own, and they needed to let other people in on it so they could get her out. Only the stakes were somewhat lower. It wasn't life or death, after all.

"What's the last ones?" Clint asked, pointing to the fourth pile.

"That's about housing," Mr. Coulson said. "Applying for a spot in the dorms, stuff about meal plans, that kind of thing."

"Do I have to do that?" Clint asked. "Do I have to live in the dorms?"

Mr. Coulson picked up the papers and looked over them again, then shook his head. "You don't have to, no, although you are 'strongly encouraged' to do so. It... might not be the worst idea."

"It would be," Clint said. "It's bad enough that Natasha is going to a different school, I don't want to live however far away from her, either."

"You don't live together now," Mr. Coulson pointed out. "It wouldn't—"

"Yes, it would," Clint said. "We see each other at school every day, and on the weekends we pretty much _do_ live together. I can't remember the last time I didn't spend at least one night at Mr. Fury's. The Sullivans don't even argue with me about it anymore, or try to tell me that maybe we're spending too much time together. They just want to know if I'm going to be home for dinner or not. They don't expect me to be if it's not a school night, and even Sunday nights I'm not, because that's pizza night."

"You may not have a choice," Mr. Coulson said. "If Natasha's school requires that she stay on campus, you—"

"Then I'll find a place to stay that's near her," Clint said. 

"How will you afford it?" Mr. Coulson asked. "If you're at school full time, you won't really have time to work enough hours to pay for an apartment, especially not in the city, and it will only make your life more difficult, having to worry about commuting to and from classes, and—"

"We'll figure it out," Clint said. He gathered up the paperwork and shoved it back in the envelope. "Thank you for helping me sort this out."

Mr. Coulson sighed and leaned back. "Of course. If you need anything else, please let me know."

"I will." Clint stopped at the door and turned around. "I mean it. Thank you."

"I know. Good luck with it."

He went to find Natasha, who was waiting out on the front steps of the school, her legs stretched out in front of her. The warmth of the weekend had ebbed somewhat, but it wasn't too cold as long as the sun stayed out from behind the clouds. 

_You okay?_ , she asked, looking over at him. _You look... worried._

_I just went to talk to Mr. Coulson about all of my school paperwork,_ he said. _They're offering me money. A scholarship. I don't know how much; he didn't say and I guess I didn't realize that was what it was saying, but... yeah. And I don't have to live on campus if I don't want to, and they will give me someone who will sign what's going on in class so I don't miss it._

_That's great,_ Natasha said, and Clint was sure that she meant it, but there was something about the look on her face that told him she was holding something back. 

_What?_ , he asked. _What is it?_

_I just have stuff that I need to figure out,_ she said. _Nothing to worry about._

He didn't believe her. _Does your school require you to live on campus?_ , he finally asked, because they needed to talk about it at some point, and sooner was probably better than later.

_Yes,_ she said. _You're required for freshman and sophomore year. But,_ she added, before he could say anything, _you can get a waiver on it under special circumstances. I just have to figure out how to prove that I have special circumstances._

_Like what?_ , Clint asked.

_That's one of the things that I need to figure out. But I will, all right? There's just some things that need to be sorted out first, and... can you trust me that I'll get it done? I don't want to drag you into it when there's nothing that you can do. I just need you to trust me, and believe that I'll make it happen._

Make what happen?, he wanted to ask, but he didn't. He just nodded. _I trust you._

She leaned in and kissed him. _Good. Then it will all work out. You fill out your paperwork and I'll fill out mine, and everything will work out how it's supposed to._

Clint just hoped that her version of 'how it's supposed to' and his were the same. _Do you need a ride home?_

Natasha shrugged. _Mr. Fury is still here, so I can get a ride with him so you don't have to go all the way out of your way,_ she said. 

_Do you think I mind an excuse to spend more time with you?_

She smiled. _Okay, fine. Yes, I need a ride home. Happy?_

_Very._ And he was. There was still part of him that was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for all of this to come crumbling down, but... for the moment, he would do as Natasha had asked and trust her, and trust that it would all work out. Because what choice did he have, really? If whatever she had going on didn't work out for some reason, then they would come up with another plan, just like they always did. 

He was a Barton, and Bartons were survivors. And she was... well, she was herself, and she was a survivor too. The world could throw whatever it wanted at them, and they would come out on top somehow. 

There was no other option.


	35. Chapter 35

"I can't believe he's doing this," Carol said. "He actually rented out one of those fun complex things for the day?"

"And paid for a hotel for everyone from out of town to stay at," Clint said. "Last year he paid for everyone to go to Six Flags, so are you _really_ surprised?"

"What, he does this every year?" Sam asked. 

They were all piled into the back of a van, which Steve was driving. They'd rented it rather than having to take several cars, and it meant that they could all spend the two hour trip to Boston relaxing. Well, all of them except Steve, but he'd volunteered. 

"This, or something like it," Clint said. "If he didn't have to pay for the hotel, it would probably be something bigger. A day of mini golf and go-karts probably costs a lot less than the amusement park, even if he probably got some kind of discount for bringing such a big group... and for being a Stark."

"There has to be better uses for that kind of money," Carol grumbled. "Like helping the victims of the earthquake in Nepal, or the people in Baltimore, or... lots of things."

"We don't know that he's not doing that, too," Steve pointed out. "Tony can be pretty self-centered, but I don't think he's completely oblivious, and anyway, it's good PR for Stark Industries if they're seen as being philanthropic."

"You shouldn't do something because it looks good," Carol said. "You should do it because it's the right thing to do."

"Does it matter what your motivations are, as long as you do the right thing?" Bobbi countered. "I mean, doing the right thing for the wrong reasons is still better than doing the wrong thing, right? Or doing nothing at all, which is what a lot of people do."

"It's hard, though," Pepper said. "Sometimes it's hard. You look at the world and you see so many problems, and you just get overwhelmed. It can feel crippling, because where do you start, when it seems like the whole world is crashing down and breaking apart around you?"

"You just pick a place to start," Carol said. "You see that people are hungry, so you donate to a food pantry. Or you go to the store and you make sandwiches and you hand them out." She leaned back, kicking her feet up on the seat in front of her. "It's harder when things are farther away, because then pretty much the only thing that you can do is give money, and that's not something that any of us necessarily have in any great quantity."

"Or at all," Jessica said. "My savings from last summer is basically gone."

Several of the others made noises of agreement, and Clint nodded too, because he'd paid his deposit for school, and now he basically had nothing. All of his financial aid paperwork was in, and he was waiting to hear back with final numbers, but even if they increased what they were offering him, it was going to be a struggle, especially if he had to factor room and board in, which he still wasn't sure about. At least the housing deposit was refundable, if he ended up living off campus... but everyone (the school, Mr. Coulson, the Sullivans...) thought that that was a bad idea.

The only one who didn't seem to think so was Natasha, but of course in that case, she was the one who had the bigger battle to fight – with the school itself – to find another way of doing things. 

"If he has all that money, maybe he should look a little closer to home," Jessica said. "Like... scholarships. If he – or I guess his company, his dad's company, whatever – offered money for people to go to college who needed it, maybe they wouldn't have to, oh, I dunno, _sign up to get themselves killed_ in order to go."

And here it was again. The recurring battle between Jessica and Carol over the decision she'd made. Clint had hoped that they would be able to avoid it, at least for a weekend, or even just a day, but they hadn't made it even an hour. He saw Carol roll her eyes, not even bothering to try and hide it anymore.

"Jessica, please," she said softly, almost too softly for him to hear. "Let's not do this now. It's not his responsibility to take care of us, and even if he'd offered, I wouldn't take it. I don't need a hand out. I just need a hand up."

"And you think—"

"And I think that now isn't the time or the place to have this conversation. Again."

"It's not a conversation if you don't listen to anything I'm saying," Jessica snapped.

"I listen," Carol said. "But just because I listen doesn't mean I'm going to change my mind."

"So how about them Yankees?" Sam said, loud enough that it overrode whatever Jessica's reply was. 

"I would not say that if—" Natasha started, but it was too late. Carol had broken off the conversation with Jessica to launch into a debate with Sam over the relative merits of their teams. It was all in good fun... mostly... and they tried to keep it friendly, although it was a bit hard given that the Red Sox had just lost to the Yankees the night before, and had two more games with them before moving on to the next team.

Clint sagged in his seat. _How much longer do you think they're going to keep arguing about it?_ , he asked Natasha, with a glance back at Jessica, who was sulking, and thankfully not noticing their signing, because this time they really _were_ talking about her.

_Until Carol leaves,_ Natasha said. _Maybe until she comes back after serving her term. Or until they break up._

_Do you think they will?_

Natasha shrugged. _I'm surprised they haven't already._

_I guess you don't get that angry at someone you don't care about,_ Clint said. 

_I guess you don't,_ Natasha replied. _When we get to the city, there's something that I need to do._

_Other than go to Tony's party?_ , Clint asked, frowning.

_Yes, other than that. It's for school. It won't take long, I hope. Maybe a few hours._

_On a Saturday?_

She shrugged again. _It was the only time that I could do it, wasn't it?_

She had a point. _How are you going to meet up with the rest of us?_

_Steve said he would go with me, and do the driving,_ she said. _He said he doesn't mind missing out. His allergies are acting up anyway, so physical activity isn't really his best friend at the moment._

_Do you want me to come along?_ He suspected he already knew the answer, because if she wanted him to come along, she would have asked him (and not Steve, and he tried not to think about the fact that that stung, but it wasn't like he didn't do things with other people, but not big things, not important things, and why did she not want him there?) but he had to ask anyway.

_Not this time,_ she said. _Go have fun with the others, and I'll catch up with you._

Steve dropped them off, and with the exception of a few backpacks that held stuff that they might need during the day, they left most of their bags in the van, stuffing them under seats so they wouldn't be visible in case they ended up having to park somewhere that was maybe not the greatest – not that any of them had anything that was particularly valuable on them to begin with; a thief would be disappointed – and watching Steve drive off with Natasha.

"Where are they going?" Bobbi asked, falling into step with Clint. "Do you know?"

"She says something for school," he replied. "I don't know."

"You don't know, or you don't believe her?"

"I don't think she's lying," Clint said, "but I don't think she's telling the whole truth, either." He looked at her, shrugged, smiled crookedly. "She's pretty good at that."

Bobbi smiled back. "I guess maybe she would have to be. But Steve's with her, so whatever it is, it can't be bad, right?"

"I guess not," Clint said. She had a point. If whatever she was up to was bad, she wouldn't involve Steve. She wouldn't involve any of them if she could avoid it. And it wasn't like it had felt like she was keeping anything else from him lately; they actually were talking about things and trying to sort it all out _together_ , so he should probably just trust her and take it at face value. Probably.

"Try not to worry about it," Bobbi suggested. "I'm pretty sure that everything is going to be all right."

"I think that's less reassuring than you think," Clint said, but he couldn't help grinning.

"Hey, what are friends for?" Bobbi asked. "Anyway, it looks like the party started without us, so we'd better catch up."

And it was true. There was already a pretty big group gathered at the entrance to the place, and it took Clint a minute to even find Tony in it, as he was, of course, the center of attention. Bruce was more on the fringes of the group, and he walked out to meet them. "I'm glad you guys could make it," he said, slapping Clint on the shoulder and hugging Bobbi. "Tony was starting to worry that you weren't coming after all."

"We got a little bit of a late start," Bobbi explained. "We were all supposed to meet at a central location, except we got mixed up on where that central location was, so... yeah. There was some extra driving involved."

"You got here," Bruce said. "That's what matters. Here, let me introduce you to a few people."

Clint knew as soon as they joined the throng of people, his ability to hear what was happening around him would be reduced to basically nothing, but he went along gamely anyway, and smiled and nodded and shook hands with the people that Bruce introduced them to, even though he didn't actually catch any of the names. If Natasha was here, she would have made sure to spell them out for him, and remember them, but she wasn't, so he figured if all else failed, "Hey man," would work. 

"Where's Natasha?" Tony asked, when they finally got to where he was standing surrounded by people Clint didn't know and would probably never meet again. "And Steve?"

"She had some school thing she had to take care of," Clint said. "He offered to drive her to it. They'll be here soon."

"That's right," Tony said. "You'll be coming to school in Boston in the fall, won't you? Both of you."

"Yes," Clint said. "Both of us."

"That's great!" Tony said. "The more the merrier!"

"Thanks," Clint said. 

"Anyway," Tony said, "they're about to unlock the gates, so let's get this party started."

Clint hadn't been sure what to expect of the place, but it turned out to be a lot bigger than he expected. There was miniature golf, and go-karts, and laser tag, and an arcade, and it was very likely that they would all find plenty to keep them busy for the day. He just wished that Natasha was there with him to enjoy it.

Bobbi stuck close by him, like she didn't think he would be okay on his own, and maybe she was right. He wasn't used to being alone anymore, and even though there were plenty of people around, it was easy for him to feel alone in a crowd these days. He worried that that was what college would feel like all the time without Natasha at his side, and he cursed the fact that he was too dumb (or at least he didn't work hard enough) to get into the same school that she did. Not that they would have been in the same classes, necessarily, but they could have met up for lunches and things like that.

"This is supposed to be a party," Bobbi said, nudging him. "Why are you frowning? You're not still worried about Natasha, are you? Because I'm pretty sure she's fine, and she knows how to take care of herself, anyway. I made sure that she at least knows the basics of that."

"It's not that," Clint said. "It's just... everything. Everything's changing and... you would think I would be used to that because in the circus every few days you're in a new place, but the thing is, the surroundings may change but the world inside the tent, and inside the circus... that doesn't change. Like, ever. You have your same routine that you follow pretty much every day, wherever you are, and you learn to rely on that. Then, when I lost that, I finally found a new routine, and I got used to that now, and now that's all about to disappear again."

"For all of us," Bobbi said. "You're not alone in it. Not this time."

"But what if... what if this time I can't adapt? What if this time is one time too many, one change too much?"

"You can," Bobbi said. "You can, because you have to, and because it's what you do. You think college is going to be harder to adjust to than being deaf? Than losing your family and having to get used to a new one? Than going to actual school for the first time? Than suddenly being a stage manager when all you thought you signed up for was nailing some boards together? Than helping your best friend get away from the man abusing her? I'm pretty sure you can do anything that you put your mind to, Clint Barton."

He didn't know what to say to that. He knew that he'd been through a lot – a lot more than she even mentioned – but when she laid it all out like that, yeah, college suddenly didn't seem quite so staggering.

"Sure, the academic part of it might be a little harder for you than for some people, but that's the point. It's supposed to be. It's not supposed to be easy. It's supposed to prepare you for the real world... I guess. Theoretically. But the thing is, you already know all about the real world. You know more than a lot of adults, more than a lot of people will ever know. You already know how to take care of yourself, so all you're going to be figuring out is how to get through classes. You've got the survival skills part of it down already."

He nodded slowly. "Thanks," he said. "I think I needed to hear that."

"Any time," Bobbi said. "And I mean that. I mean, I prefer not at three in the morning, but if you need it... you've got my number. You'll always have my number, and I'll always pick up for you. Any of you. You're the best friends I've ever had, and I have no intention of just letting you slip away just because we're scattering across the country."

"Thank you," he said again. "You know that you can call me, too. If you need something. Or... maybe texting is better." He smiled wryly.

Bobbi nodded. "I appreciate that," she said. "Now that was way too much serious for a birthday party, so let's go have some fun, shall we?"

Clint nodded, and they decided to start with mini golf, because it gave them the best opportunity to keep a watch for Natasha and Steve's return. They were joined by Peggy and Bruce, and they very quickly discovered that none of them were any good at all at mini golf. Which, oddly, made it more fun.

When Natasha finally showed up, they were just finishing up their round. "Do we want to start over?" Clint asked, and Peggy and Steve agreed, while Bobbi and Bruce went to go check out the arcade for a little while. "How was it?" Clint asked Natasha while she was getting her club. "Did you get everything sorted out?"

"Not yet," she said, "not completely. But there's definitely progress, and it will all work out. I'm sure of it."

"Well as long as you're sure," he said.

She smiled, and it was warm and real and reached all the way to her eyes, which convinced him more than anything that she believed what she was saying. Everything _would_ work out, and they would figure out a way to keep their lives together even as they were forced to exist in separate worlds as well. 

And then Sam decided to join their group, and there really wasn't any more opportunities to talk, or to take anything too seriously, because if Clint thought that _he_ was bad at miniature golf, he had nothing on Sam, who seemed to think that his lack of skill was a cause for celebration, and suddenly it became a game of finding out who could fail most spectacularly at getting the ball in the hole.

"Just don't get us kicked out," Steve said with a laugh. "I'm pretty sure Tony wouldn't be happy about that."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam said. "I'll try to avoid putting my ball through the actual windmill."

"Or anyone's windshield," Peggy joked. "I didn't know it was possible to give a ball air time with a putter."

"With me," Sam said, grinning, "anything in possible."

And maybe it was, Clint thought. Maybe in this world, which was nothing like the one he'd grown up in, maybe anything was possible. He reached out and squeezed Natasha's hand, and she squeezed back, and then he had to let go to take his turn at the tee. 

"I believe I can fly," Sam sang, just as Clint swung... and apparently his ball did too, because the next thing he knew, he was retrieving his ball from the hole... on the next green over. He didn't think he'd ever seen Natasha laugh so hard, and Steve was wheezing, and it felt good.


	36. Chapter 36

_What's that?_ Clint wasn't surprised to find Natasha sitting on the front steps of the school waiting for him; it was warm enough now, even in the early morning, that there wasn't a need to spend any more time inside the building than was absolutely necessary. He was, however, surprised to find her clutching an envelope in her hands so tight her knuckles were white, even as she tried to school her face into blankness. 

She shoved it into his hands. _You open it. I can't._

Clint looked down at it. The return address was from Boston. Something from her school, then. When he looked closer, he saw that it was from the Office of Housing and Residence Life. He looked at her curiously, flipped it over and carefully tore open the flap. 

He slid out a sheet of paper – just one sheet, and he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one – and looked at her again. 

_It's their decision,_ she signed. _It has to be._

_About whether you have to live on campus or not?_ He had to tuck the letter under his arm to form the signs, crumpling it in the process. When he realized what he'd done, he smoothed it out. 

She nodded. _Read it._

_Whatever it says,_ Clint said, _We'll be okay._ He couldn't be sure it was true, of course. He couldn't make any promises. But he could hope, and they'd made it through... was it really three years now? two and a half, anyway... living apart and they'd been all right. He would have his car... probably... although where the hell did you park in Boston?... and there was public transportation, so they would be able to see each other, if not whenever they wanted, pretty often. Which wasn't so different from now, was it? Except now they saw each other every day, and sometimes they only saw each other in passing between classes until they got to the classes that they shared, but there was before school, and after...

_Read it,_ she demanded. _Please._

Clint nodded, and unfolded the sheet. He read it, and when he got to the bottom, he read it again to make sure that it actually said what he thought, and that it wasn't just wishful thinking. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. _It's okay,_ he signed, and handed it back to her so she could read it herself.

She took it, her eyes scanning the lines, and then she shoved it into her pocket and threw her arms around him, the impact of her body enough to rock him back on his heels before he recovered. He put his arms around her and held on, burying his fingers in her hair and cradling her head against his shoulder.

He was surprised. He wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't, that she was reacting so strongly to the news that she had been granted an exemption to the rule that freshman were required to live on campus. Somehow, he hadn't thought that it all mattered this much to her.

Her lips met the skin of his throat, and then it was hard to think of anything for a minute, and the idea of actually going into school, of sitting through classes and listening to lectures that no longer mattered because their future was already secure...

"I don't want to stay here," he whispered, his lips brushing her hair. "We could just... go."

She looked up at him, looked around, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what she was thinking. She lived with the principal, who had driven her to school and knew that she was here. If she suddenly came up on the attendance list as absent, she was going to catch hell for it. There was no way that she wouldn't, no way that he wouldn't find out. Clint could see her weighing the idea, the risk versus the reward. 

"Let's go," she said, and grabbed his hand, and they were at the edge of campus when the first bus rolled into the driveway. 

Natasha hesitated, but only for a second, then squeezed his hand and kept walking. The route she took was familiar, and he let his feet go on autopilot (did it count as autopilot when you were being led, even though you knew where you were going?) as he took everything in, trying to memorize every detail because this might be the last time, or one of the last times, that they did something like this... at least here, in this place. 

It was bittersweet to think about, as they pushed themselves through the gap in the fence that surrounded the overgrown cemetery. 

The maintenance shed, or whatever it was, that had been their secret hideaway hadn't fared well over the winter. The weight of the snow had taken down what remained of the roof, leaving the entire place open to the elements, and the space inside was filled with the crumbled remains of beams and shingles.

_There's probably a metaphor in this,_ Clint said, gesturing to it. 

The corner of Natasha's mouth quirked up. _There probably is,_ she agreed. _And you thought spending six weeks on poetry wouldn't teach you anything._

_It taught me that I hate poetry,_ Clint said. _And that everything is apparently a metaphor._

_You don't hate poetry,_ Natasha said, then waved her hand as if to dismiss the statement. _I think that English class is enough to make anyone hate anything, after you've analyzed it to death. But I think maybe you wouldn't hate all poetry, if you could just enjoy it for whatever it is for you, and not have to try and figure out what the teacher has decided is the **right** answer._

_Maybe,_ Clint said. _Is that what we came here to talk about? Poetry?_

She smiled, shook her head. _No._ Her expression went a little bit sly. _I didn't think we'd come here to talk at all._

He laughed. He couldn't help it. _It wasn't the first thing on my mind,_ he admitted. 

_I didn't think it was._ She closed the space between them, tipping her face up and pulling his down so that their lips met, and he forgot everything except the girl in his arms and the little world that they could wrap themselves in to keep themselves safe, and how much and how little it had changed from the day they'd first met.

Of course this place had memories that didn't glow like the morning sun, that sent a chill up his spine even as warmth saturated his skin. Natasha smoothed her hand down his back, pulling him closer against her, remembering too, maybe, or wanting to make him, or herself, or both of them forget.

And he did, for a little while, as her touch burned through him, and he was glad that they'd had the sense to make sure that the blankets they'd stored there, that they'd never removed, because they didn't know when they might need them, were wrapped in plastic, so despite all of feet of snow that had come and gone since the last time they'd been here, they were still clean and dry. 

He must have dozed, because he woke up a little while later to Natasha tracing her finger in patterns on his chest. He reached up to cup his hand over hers, stilling it, and she lifted her head from his shoulder and smiled. 

_We've come a long way,_ he said. 

She nodded. _I was thinking the same thing. It's hard to think about who I was then. Not just because of what was happening, although that's most of it. But just because... I held so much of myself back. I kept myself locked away, because I was afraid to trust anyone. I was afraid to trust you, even, and that seems so strange to me now._

_I'm glad,_ Clint said. _That it seems strange now, I mean. That you trust me... and you feel like you could have always trust me. Or whatever._ The words felt awkward, clumsy, and this wasn't his forte. He wasn't any kind of poet; he didn't have a way with words like some people did. Loki. Tony. But it didn't matter, because she understood him anyway.

_Do you remember back before we learned to sign?_ , she asked. _How did we ever communicate?_

Clint laughed, shaking his head. _Badly, I think. It was so hard for me to understand you. The pitch of your voice, and your accent..._ He shook his head. _I was guessing half the time at what you were saying, and hoping that I got it right, because I was pretty sure if I kept guessing wrong, you would have given up on me. You needed someone who could understand you._

_I was guessing half the time, too,_ Natasha said. _Well, maybe not half. But sometimes I wasn't sure if what you were saying was actually what you meant to say, or if somehow I was turning the words into something that they weren't, just because I wanted them to be._

_I'm glad I thought of it, then,_ Clint said. _I guess I'm not as dumb as most people think._

_No one--_ , Natasha started, then stopped herself. _Anyone who thinks you're dumb obviously doesn't know you very well,_ she said instead. _And doesn't deserve to._

_Thanks,_ Clint said, and wondered if his cheeks and ears were actually pink or if it just felt like it. He didn't want to admit how much it meant to him to hear – see – her say those words. He tried to pretend that other people's opinions didn't matter to him, but they did. Anyone who said that they didn't care what anyone thought about them was either some kind of sociopath, or a liar. Maybe they didn't care – maybe _he_ didn't care – what random strangers thought about him, but the opinions of the people that he was actually close to – they mattered. Natasha first and most of all, and then... probably Bobbi, actually, when he thought about it. If he took Natasha out of the equation, somehow somewhere along the line Bobbi had probably become his best friend. And Steve, definitely, was in there, too. Even though they were almost the same age, there were times that it felt like Steve was almost a father figure... or at the very least he'd sort of stepped up to fill the void that had been left when he'd lost Barney.

It was then that he realized, that it really started to sink in, that once they graduated, they were all going to go their separate ways, and he wouldn't see them every day. He would probably only see them every few months, for school breaks... except maybe even not then, because it wasn't like he was going to come back from college and stay with the Sullivans during breaks, was it? They would use his room for some new kid who needed a place to live, and he wasn't about to begrudge that kid, whoever they were, that, was he?

There was Mr. Fury's, of course, but would Natasha go back there?

She didn't have to live on campus, but that raised the bigger question – where _would_ she live? Or, he guessed, they. 

_What happens now?_ , he asked. _With housing._

_We find an apartment,_ she said. _When we were in Boston last week, that's one of the things that Steve and I did. We met with a realtor who could help us find somewhere, since we won't actually be in the city to do it. She said that things really open up during the summer, but that if you find something like you, you have to grab it fast, because things turn over pretty quickly as some students move out and others move in._

_Can we... afford it?_ , he asked. He expected that he would have to work while he was in school, but for some reason he couldn't imagine Natasha doing the same. Which was maybe sexist of him, or something, or maybe it was just that she hadn't had a job except in the summers, so that was just how things were with her in his head. Or maybe it was that he put a lot more stock in her being invested in school, and doing well, and going places, and a job might interfere with that.

_Yes,_ she said, and then looked away. 

Clint touched her arm, but she didn't look up. "How?" he asked. "I'll get a job, but I don't know how much I'll make, and—"

"You don't need to worry about it," Natasha said, or at least Clint thought she did. She was looking down, and her voice was low, and even though her accent wasn't nearly as indecipherable as it once had been, either because he was used to it now, or because it just wasn't as thick as it had once been (or both – probably both). 

He felt a knock forming in his stomach. "What do you mean?" 

"There is money. For me for school, and to live. We will be fine."

"Where...?"

"Damages," she said. "Reparations. Blood money. But it gives me a future, so I take it."

His eyebrows went up. "Was that... part of the court thing?"

She shrugged. "Yes and no. Not part of the original case, which was criminal, but also there was civil case. I did not have to testify, because I am minor and because case was brought on my behalf, not because I ask for it. I did not know it was happening until after it is done, and they – Mr. Fury, Mr. FBI I can't remember his name – tell me that now I have money for school or whatever I need."

He didn't ask how much. It was rude, and none of his business, and for all he knew, she didn't know. Maybe it was just enough to cover whatever expenses she had, and it wasn't a set amount. He didn't know how these things worked. 

"So we have money to live, and I have money to go to school." She shrugged. "Sometimes I think it means it almost was worth it, but then I wake up in cold sweat and think no, I am stupid to think anything could make it worth it."

Clint wanted to pull her into a hug, but he got the feeling that pulling her would be exactly the wrong thing to do in the moment, so he offered a hand instead. She took it and squeezed, then brought it to her lips and kissed his knuckles. "Thank you," she whispered, the words brushing over his skin and sending a shiver up his arm. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

"Never," he said, and meant it. "We'll paint the bedroom purple." 

Her eyes filled with tears, and she kissed him hard. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, we will paint the bedroom purple."

And then there were no words again, not for a long time.


	37. Chapter 37

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. She frowned slightly, then amended, "Are you sure that this is the best idea? The first year of college can be really hard, adjusting to a new environment, to classes, to –"

"Because I don't have any experience with that?" Clint asked. He hoped that she didn't take the words as an attack; they weren't meant to be. It was a joke... kind of... albeit a not particularly funny and incredibly true one.

She looked at him, studying his face for a moment, then looked back at the sandwiches she was making, shaking her head with a slight smile. "Fair enough. But with everything that you're going to be dealing with, I still think it might be a better choice to live on campus, where you'll be able to have support as you navigate your way through it."

He shook his head. "It wouldn't be like that, though. If I'm living in the dorms, it will just make things _more_ complicated, because I'll have to take time out to see Natasha, and I'll probably end up sleeping wherever she is anyway, so it would just be a waste of money. I would rather deal with whatever complications come from living off campus, but having a place to go to at the end of the day that actually feels like _home_ , than having to live with a stranger, being away from her and always wondering how she is."

His foster mother looked at him again, her face set in a deep frown. "Who are you, and what did you do with the boy who moved in three years ago?" Then her expression softened. "That is actually one of the most mature, adult things I've ever heard you say, and it's difficult for me to come up with an argument to that. Because you're right, having a place that feels like home is going to do you more good in the long run, I think, than whatever support you might find in the dorms. I do hope that you take the opportunity to participate in campus life, though. Clubs, activities – make new friends. From what I've seen, your friends here are a pretty amazing group, and I know that some of them will be in Boston with you, but it's good to make connections with people you're meeting now, too, not just stick with the ones that you've already formed."

"It's not like I plan to _not_ interact with the people at my school," Clint said. "I'll have people in classes, and there will probably be group projects and things like that. But yeah, I'll see if there are any clubs or whatever..." He shrugged. He knew that she had a point, but... well, he figured if he was meant to make friends with people, it would just kind of happen. His main concern was holding on to what he had. Maybe when he got there he would feel differently, but he wasn't about to give up his high school friends just because he was going to be meeting new people.

"What time are they getting here?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. "And is an ad—is Mr. Fury going with you?"

"Yeah," Clint said, "he's going." He didn't point out to Mrs. Sullivan that technically he and Natasha were both adults now (Natasha only just barely, but it counted) and when they signed any leases it would be in their own names. He was pretty sure that she felt that they were too young to have as much control over their own lives as they were about to. Sometimes he couldn't help agreeing with them. It all felt so real, and permanent, and final, even though it wasn't. It wasn't like they were _buying_ a house. If they decided they hated the place they found, they could just pack up and find another one when the lease was up.

But he'd grown up in the circus, where the longest they ever stayed in one place was maybe a week... maybe a month or two in the off season, and then it was in some kind of rental trailer park, usually, surrounded by the same people who were also just waiting to move on. Signing something that said he agreed to stay in the same place for a whole year felt pretty damn permanent to him.

"They should be here any minute," he added. "I should go grab my bag."

"Have fun," she said. "And remember to try to be objective. Even if you love a place, you need to think practically about it."

"Yes ma'am," Clint said, and went to look out the front window to see if his ride had arrived.

Once he was safely buckled in to the back of Mr. Fury's car (and Natasha had switched from the front seat to the back, despite Mr. Fury's objections that it made him feel like a chauffeur), they were on their way. Apparently the actual middle-aged adults had decided to conspire and decide that they weren't able to handle hunting for an apartment on their own; they needed supervision and guidance.

And hell, maybe they were right. It wasn't like either of them really knew what to look for in a place, or what questions to ask. They'd never done this before. They were working with a realtor who handled rental properties as well as places that were for sale, so that would help with the location, at least – she'd been asked to focus on areas that were both affordable and at least somewhat centrally located between their two schools, so that one of them didn't end up with a five minute commute and the other half an hour or something. She said that she would do her best, and she'd called a few days ago saying that she had a few places that she'd like to show them, and could they come this weekend to take a look?

"You told her two bedroom apartments, didn't you?" Mr. Fury asked. "No studios or one bedrooms."

Natasha narrowed her eyes. "Why? We only need one bedroom."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Mr. Fury said. "If you're going to live together, you each need your own space. I know that you think that what you have now is going to last forever, and hey, maybe you're right. Maybe it will. But it doesn't mean that you won't want to be able to get away from each other sometimes. I just don't want you in a position where something happens and you decide that maybe you're better off as friends, and Clint is looking for somewhere to live in the middle of the year."

Clint started to object, wanting to know why _he_ was the one who would have to do the moving, but then he remembered that it was Natasha's money that was financing this, the money that had been bought with pain and terror, and shut his mouth. He reached over and squeezed Natasha's hand, and she squeezed back hard enough that it hurt. 

"Anyway," Mr. Fury said. "Even if you're sharing a room, you might like having another room that has a door that can be closed, in case one of you needs to study and the other is watching TV or something."

Clint grinned. "That's actually one of the times that being deaf helps," he said. "If Natasha is watching TV and I need to study, I can just take my hearing aids out. If she needs to study and I'm watching TV, I can just turn off the volume and read the subtitles."

The look Mr. Fury gave him through the rearview mirror might once have shut him up, but now that he knew that the man was pretty much all bark, no bite (at least when it came to them) he just said, "Hey, eye on the road."

Which got him another glare, this one enough to shut him up. Mr. Fury shook his head. "All right, fine, what if you want to have visitors? Maybe Jessica comes to visit, or Carol, or Bobbi, or any of your other friends. It would be nice to have a room with a bed where they can sleep, wouldn't it? Instead of them having to sleep on the couch?" He raised an eyebrow, challenging them to find fault with this argument.

Clint looked at Natasha, who looked back at him. _He has a point,_ Natasha admitted. _It would be nice for people to have a place to stay._

_Yeah, it would,_ Clint agreed. _But should we tell **him** that? He might get a big head._

_It's already pretty big,_ Natasha said with a grin. 

"Are you two talking about me?" Mr. Fury asked, although he sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

"You are paranoid like Jessica," Natasha said. "Not everything is about you all the time."

"No, but that was," Mr. Fury said. "You were deciding that I was right, but you didn't want to admit it out loud."

Natasha's eyes went wide. "You understand?"

"Not a lot, not completely, but I'm not an idiot or oblivious, and it was pretty obvious anyway. So two bedroom places. It gives you options."

"Unless we find perfect place and is only one bedroom," Natasha said.

"If it's perfect," Mr. Fury said, "We'll discuss it."

Unfortunately, they didn't find any perfect places with any number of bedrooms. Everywhere they looked was too cramped, or too old (like cracks in the walls or ceilings, leaky windows and ancient heating systems old), or too far away from either school, or too expensive.

"It's early days yet," their realtor told them. "A lot of the leases don't come up until mid- to late-summer, and people may not have notified their landlords that they'll be leaving yet. It's good that you're starting to look now. It gives us plenty of time to find the right place." She was all smiles, and really seemed to believe that everything would turn out all right, but Clint was discouraged, and so was Natasha.

_What if we **don't** find the right place?_ , she asked on the ride home. 

_Then we'll find the almost-right place,_ Clint said. _We'll find a place that's good enough for now, and we'll keep looking for next year._ It wasn't the answer she wanted to hear, and it wasn't the answer that he wanted to give, but it was true. He knew that odds were that they wouldn't find a place that they loved right off the bat. He was used to settling for 'good enough' or 'livable', and Natasha, having grown up in an orphanage, couldn't be that picky... could she? 

Yet he couldn't help remembering that he'd comforted her with imagining the house where they could live together, and maybe she _could_ be that picky, because she was looking for that place. The thing was, though, that a place was just a place, and a house was just a house, and home was the people inside of it, and wherever they ended up, they could turn it into home. 

But it would be nice if they actually had space to move without bumping into each other, or without having to worry about the heat crapping out in the middle of the winter. 

_There's still time,_ Clint said. _Still months before we're going anywhere. We haven't even graduated yet._

Natasha sighed, and unfastened her seatbelt so that she could scoot over to press against him, fastening the middle seat belt around herself when Mr. Fury made a noise of disapproval. She settled against him, and he reached up to stroke her hair, letting the curls sift through his fingers. He didn't think she slept, but she pretended to, and he decided that he could get used to this. Not the being driven around... although that was kind of nice once in a while, too... but the getting to be close to her whenever he wanted. Maybe growing up didn't suck completely after all.

Then his phone started buzzing. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Steve. Why would Steve be calling him? He was pretty sure that he knew that they were in Boston for the day, and it wasn't like they were the kind of friends who talked on the phone all the time. Also, everyone knew that it was better to text him than to call.

He slid his finger over the screen and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Hey. It's Steve," he said, like he'd forgotten caller ID existed. And maybe Clint was just hearing things, but he sounded kind of stressed. "How are you?"

"Uh... good?"

"That's good," Steve said. "Did you have any lucky finding a place?" 

"No," Clint said. "The search continues."

"That's too bad," Steve said. But there was something in this voice... he sounded distracted, and it wasn't like Steve to not give the person he was talking to one hundred percent of his attention. "I'm sure you'll find a place, though."

"I'm sure we will," Clint said. Then he finally asked, "Is everything okay?"

"No," Steve said. "No, everything's not okay. I... I didn't know who else to call. Not that... not that you can do anything, or anything, but... sometimes you just need to hear a friendly voice?"

"What's going on?" Clint asked, and he must have shifted just enough to jar Natasha, because she lifted her head, looking at him with a frown of concern. 

"I'm at the hospital," Steve said. "Not for me," he added quickly. "Although I kind of wish it was, because that would be easier somehow, I think. I just..." 

"What's going on?" Clint asked again. "Just... breathe, Steve. And tell me what's happening."

"Sharon," Steve said. "Sharon's in the hospital. She broke her arm, and... it maybe wasn't an accident. Maybe it was, and we're hoping it was, but even if it was an accident, it still might be a problem. Like, a big problem."

"Why?" Clint asked, but he could already guess. "Was she with you when it happened?"

"No," Steve said. "She was – theoretically – with her mother. But no one was paying attention to her, and it's in question right now whether her mother was even there or if she'd been left in the care of someone, or no one at all, and if her mother was there and was just not paying attention, that's one thing, but..." Clint imagined Steve was shaking his head. "I don't know. She's going to be fine; it's just fracture and kids heal really fast, but... what about next time? What if she's left alone – if she was left alone – again and she gets hungry and tries to make herself something to eat and gets burned or something?"

Clint sighed. "I'm assuming the hospital has already called Child Protective Services?"

"Yeah," Steve said. "It's been pretty crazy, and we – well, Peggy – didn't get called by them, she got called by her sister who was freaking out, and she's with Sharon now, but it's not really clear what's going to happen at this point, but it's looking more and more likely that Sharon is going to get taken away."

"Will she go live with you and Peggy then? If she does? Don't they try and place kids with members of their family whenever they can?"

"They do," Steve said, "but the fact that Peggy is so young... they don't necessarily look at that favorably, I guess. They're more likely to try to place her with Peggy's mom, Sharon's grandmother, only I really don't think she wants anything to do with it. And then there's me."

"What about you?"

"In order to be a foster parent, you have to be twenty-one. I'm not yet. Peggy is, but... I won't be until July. So the fact that she lives with me might be held against her."

"Until July," Clint said.

"Right."

"So... if Sharon _does_ get taken away from her mom, which is still an if, she can live with her grandmother for a couple of months, and then once you turn twenty-one and that's no longer an issue, you two can take her. Right?" Clint paused, then said, "If you want to."

"If they let us," Steve said. "That's still an if, too."

Clint sighed again. "We're maybe forty minutes from home," he said. "Do you want me to come to the hospital?"

"No," Steve said. "No, that's all right. We'll hopefully be out of here by then. Unless they decide..." His voice trailed off.

"Are you sure?" Clint asked. "I don't mind. It might be easier, not being alone."

Steve hesitated, then said, "Why don't you call when you're back and we'll see how things stand then?"

"Works for me," Clint said. "It'll be okay." He didn't know that for sure, but he knew that it was probably something that Steve needed to hear, even if he knew that it might not be true. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Thanks," Steve said, and hung up.

He quickly signed an explanation to Natasha, whose frown was enough to drop the temperature in the car several degrees, or at least it felt that way. On second thought, Clint decided, being an adult sucked.


	38. Chapter 38

Clint found a place to park two blocks away, and found himself wondering just how many people Steve actually knew. Even though he knew that Steve was a great guy, he couldn't help thinking of him as the kind of person who a lot of people overlooked. After all, he was kind of small, not very athletic (through no fault of his own – it wasn't like he didn't, or wouldn't, try if his lungs allowed), and, well, sort of a dork. And an artist. The kind of kid that would get beaten up a lot in high school, actually, if the movies were to be believed.

But if Clint had learned anything in high school, it was that the movies weren't really to be believed. Maybe what they commonly portrayed on screen was the reality in some schools, for some people, and yeah, he definitely saw different groups at Shield High, but people could move between them and it wasn't really a big deal. Pepper was in practically every social group somehow... and then there were people like him and Natasha, who didn't really belong to any, but it's not like anyone got on their case about it. 

Anyway, there were a ton of cars parked all around Steve and Peggy's house (and whoever else lived with them at the moment – college students and all, so it changed on a fairly regular basis) and he suspected that most of them were there for the same party he was.

He opened the trunk and pulled out the big bowl of pasta salad that Natasha had made, sealed in a big Tupperware container that Mrs. Sullivan had been nice enough to lend to them for the occasion. She'd even offered to bake some cookies for him to take, but he'd declined, because Jessica was already bringing enough for an army, he was pretty sure, and also because if Mrs. Sullivan baked, Connor would want to help, and he wasn't sure how great an idea that was. Sure, germs would get baked out, but why take chances?

_Do we even know any of these people?_ , Natasha asked when they got to Steve's back yard. She kept her signs small, like she was trying to whisper, even though there wouldn't have been any need. No one was paying them any attention; they were too busy talking and bumping a ball over a net that had been set up in the back, and munching on potato chips. Someone had a boom box playing music, not loud enough that it made it impossible to hear anything else, thankfully, but Clint knew that if he got too close to it it was going to be a problem.

_A few, maybe,_ Clint answered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, checking the time. _We're not early._

_I guess everyone else is just later,_ Natasha said with a shrug. _We should find Steve, find out where he wants that._ She nodded toward the bowl, which Clint had pinned against his hip with his elbow, making signing more than a little awkward.

"Hi guys!" Clint turned to see who was greeting him, and smiled when he saw that it was Peggy. "I'm glad you could make it!"

"Thanks," Clint said. "Should I just put this out, or...?"

Peggy looked at the bowl, trying to see through the translucent lid. "If it's snack food, just put it out, if it's food-food, give it to me and I'll put it inside until we really get the grill going. Probably in another hour or so. I have to be honest, I don't even know how to start the thing, so it will have to wait until Steve gets back."

"Where is he?" Clint asked. 

"He went to go get Bucky," Peggy told him. "He thought..." She frowned slightly. "He thought it would be good for him to get out, actually interact with people a bit. I hope that he's right."

Clint didn't say it, but he hoped so, too. If Bucky was still the same guy that he'd been when Clint met him... was it months ago now?... he didn't think this was the greatest idea. But that was the whole point of Bucky being in that rehab place, wasn't it? To get him better, or at least help him get adjusted to being back in the world? So maybe he'd made some progress.

"Here," Peggy said, before he could say anything, "let me take that for you." She grabbed the bowl and whisked it away inside, leaving them standing there feeling awkward. Most of the people must have been Steve and Peggy's friends from college.

A second later, Clint found himself nearly bowled over as an arm came crashing down around his neck. "Long time no see!" Thor roared, grabbing them both in a hug that more closely resembled a chokehold. "How have you two been?"

"Good," Clint said, when Thor had loosened his grasp enough for him to say anything. "How about you?"

"I can't complain," Thor said. "I'm glad that finals are over, that's for sure."

"Was it hard?" Natasha asked.

Thor shrugged. "I had some tough classes this semester, or tougher than they have been. I did all right, but the ones that didn't have a big final exam had big papers instead, and even though we got some of the assignments pretty far in advance, and I knew that I should get an early start on them, I... well, I didn't, and so it's really my own fault." He grinned a bit sheepishly. "Hey, there's someone I want you to meet!"

They turned, and saw a young woman standing maybe two steps away, looking sort of awkward. She waved, and they waved back. "Guys, this is Jane. She goes to school with me, but she has an internship here for the summer, so I invited her to come along. Jane, this is Clint and Natasha. I've told you about them."

"None of what he says is true," Natasha said, deadpan, then smiled and reached out to shake Jane's offered hand. 

Clint did the same, "Unless it's good. Then it's all absolutely true." 

She laughed. "Thor doesn't have anything less than glowing to say about any of his high school friends," she said. "It's nice to meet you, finally. I feel like I already know some of you already, because he talks about all of you so much." 

Clint wasn't really sure how to respond to that, and was glad when the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of more of their friends. 

"The party has arrived!" Tony announced, holding out his arms like he was some kind of celebrity and they were all supposed to rush to hug him or something. 

"Late," Bruce pointed out, who had apparently arrived with him. "We _would_ have been on time, but Tony decided that even though we know how to get here, he needed to test out his new GPS system. Needless to say, it's a little glitchy."

"It's not _glitch_ ," Tony said. "It just prefers the scenic route. That's one of the options, you know. Unlike other GPS systems, it doesn't have to take you the fastest, most direct route."

"Why would you choose that when you know you have to be somewhere in a timely fashion?" Bruce countered. 

"I didn't say I _chose_ that option," Tony said. "Just that it exists."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Anyway, it's got an interesting definition of 'scenic'."

"So I'm still working out a few kinks," Tony said. "It got us here, didn't it?"

Bruce sighed. "Yes, it got us here."

"So it worked perfectly."

Clint tuned their argument out at that point, preferring to accept the hug that Bobbi offered on arrival. "Do we know where food is going?" she asked. "Deviled eggs."

"Inside," Clint said. "You can probably just go in and put them in the fridge yourself, or find Peggy."

"Thanks," Bobbi said. "Be right back."

After that, it seemed like everyone started arriving at once, and soon he no longer felt like the odd man out, the one high school kid amongst the college types (although since Natasha was with him he hadn't really been alone at all), but he wondered where Steve was. It wasn't as if the rehab facility was that far away; shouldn't he be back by now? Unless Bucky was giving him a hard time and Steve wasn't taking no for an answer, which was possible and maybe even likely. Clint wondered how long it would take before Steve gave up.

He was in the middle of a conversation with Bobbi and Jessica when he saw someone – a very small someone – go streaking past him, and turned to watch that someone – Sharon – crash into the legs of the tall, dark man at Steve's side. "Uncle Bucky!" she cheered, hugging his thighs. "Look, we match!" She flapped her arm, where it was strapped to her body in a sling, like it was a wing, then pointed to Bucky's sleeve, which ended hung empty at his side. "It's even the same one, see? Which is good, because I need my right hand to write. Just like you, right?"

To Clint's surprise, he smiled and scooped the little girl up with the arm that he had, resting her on his hip. "Yup. Good thing," he agreed. "Are you going to show me where they're hiding the cookies?"

She giggled. "No! No cookies before food. Aunt Peggy said."

"Really? Boo. Well how about some soda?"

"Bad for your teeth."

"Water?"

"Okay." She squirmed out of his grasp and reached across her body to hold his right hand with her own awkwardly as she tugged him toward some coolers set up near the table that the food would eventually all go on. 

Clint looked at Steve as he approached, eyebrows raised. "That's... different."

Steve smiled a little crookedly and nodded. "Yeah. He's been getting better. There are still bad days - _a lot_ of bad days – but there are more good ones than there used to be. And he likes Sharon a lot." He watched them for a minute. "I think maybe it's because she's never known him as anyone but the person he is now, and adults look at him and see that he's missing an arm and know that it used to be there, and think about all of the things that are going to be so much harder now, and they pity him, where it doesn't even faze Sharon. The first time she met him, she asked if his arm was always missing or if he got hurt. He said that he got hurt. She asked if it still hurt, and he said sometimes. She told him that she hoped that it didn't hurt anymore soon... and then asked if he wanted to color. She just accepts that that's how he is, and assumes that he already knows how to do whatever needs doing. Which isn't the case... but I think maybe it makes him try harder." 

"That's good then," Clint said. "Good for both of them, maybe."

"Maybe," Steve agreed, and sighed. "We're still getting it all sorted out," he added, in answer to Clint's unspoken question. "She's been staying with Peggy's mom – her grandmother – and Peggy's been staying with them, but it's not the greatest solution, because her mom still has access to her, and we just don't trust that that's not going to work. We're working on getting custody of her ourselves, as soon as I turn twenty-one."

"Then what?" Clint asked. 

"Then we move to Massachusetts," Steve said. "Hopefully, anyway. That's another whole issue. But we both got into school there – the same school, even – and they offer family housing, but we have to put in the application soon, so we need to know whether we'll have her or not. We could always find an apartment if we had to, but this is so much easier, if we can get things sorted out in time."

"I hope it all works out," Clint said. "She deserves a chance at growing up with... well, I guess it wouldn't be a _normal_ family, but what does that even mean? But she deserves to not have to worry about whether her parent... parental figure... adult, whatever... is going to come home, and whether she's going to get dinner, and whether she's going to wake up some stranger in the house. Because that's... I mean, it doesn't seem like it's done her much damage at this point, but..." He stopped himself. "Well, other than a broken arm," he corrected, grimacing. 

"After they talked to her, and we talked to her, they determined that it wasn't inflicted by anyone on her. She was climbing a tree and she fell. Granted, she was outside climbing a tree unsupervised, and that was a problem, but it wasn't like someone did it to her," Steve said. 

"I guess that's something," Clint replied. "Anyway, what I meant was that right now maybe she's young enough that she won't remember too much of what's happened up until now, in the long run, if she can get into a more stable situation."

"I'm just worried that they won't see two college kids as a stable situation for a little girl," Steve said. "It's crazy, because if two people our age had a baby together, no one would question us raising it, right? Granted it would be younger than Sharon is, but still. And there's a whole thing with how if I'm going to be the one who's there in the evening to get Sharon ready for bed... that's a problem? Like they can't trust a guy to do that? But if I was really her father, no one would question it. I get where they're coming from; if the kid is a ward of the state they have a duty to look out for them, but..." He shook his head. "We're honestly trying to see if there's any way to work outside of the system, but that means getting Peggy's sister to give up her parental rights, and she's dragging her feet on it."

"I'm sorry," Clint said. 

Steve smiled. "Me too. But hey, this is a party! I didn't mean to be such a downer. Let's just forget all of our problems for a little while and enjoy ourselves, huh?"

"Good idea," Clint said, and went to find Natasha again, who had either joined or been dragged into a game of soccer with Sharon, Bucky and a few other people, including, surprisingly, Bobbi. He jogged up to her and nudged her to get her attention, even as her eyes followed the ball as it passed from one person to another. She wasn't moving, so he assumed she must be playing goalie or something. "I thought you hated soccer," he said.

"I hated being _forced_ to play soccer," Bobbi said. "But are you going to say no to that face?" She pointed toward Sharon. 

"Probably not," Clint said. "She's pretty good at getting people to do what she wants them to."

"Especially with her arm wrapped in neon pink plaster," Bobbi said. "Anyway, get out of the way, they're coming."

Clint dodged out of the way, and ducked into the game. He didn't know who was on which team, so he just played for both, and it didn't take long before the at least somewhat organized game of soccer to degenerate into a game of Calvinball that expanded to encompass everyone at the party, whether they knew they were playing or not.

By the time the first round of food came off the grill, they'd all worked up a pretty good appetite. Clint watched as Bucky helped Sharon fix a plate, getting her settled with it before going back to fix his own, since he couldn't carry two plates at once and probably didn't want to risk her dropped it trying to carry it one-handed. There were still shadows under the guy's eyes; he was still haunted by whatever he had seen and done overseas. But he really seemed like he was getting better. Clint didn't say anything to him, though. He wasn't sure that Bucky would even remember that they'd met before. But it would get better. He was proof of that, and Natasha...

... and Bruce and Bobbi and so many of the rest of them, when he thought about it.

Natasha sat down next to him, and then Bobbi and Carol and Jess joined them, and soon they had to move another blanket over to make room for the expanding circle. Clint couldn't really follow he conversation, because it flowed from one person to the next, and fractured into smaller conversations before coming back together again, but he didn't mind. He just watched them all, and tried to figure out when they had become his life, how he'd ended up with so many friends without even realizing it.

_I know,_ Natasha signed, like she could read his thoughts and seriously, sometimes he wondered. Like, there had to be a chance that psychic phenomenon actually existed, right? Or maybe she just knew him that well. _Who would have imagined this three years ago?_

_Not quite three years,_ Clint said. _Not yet._

_Close enough,_ Natasha said. _When it gets to exactly three years, we won't be here anymore._

_No,_ Clint agreed, and the thought gave him a pang. _Hopefully we'll all still get together._

_For Thanksgiving,_ Natasha said, as if it was a sure thing. _Tony might need a bigger table, if people start bringing guests._ Her gaze drifted to Jane, and to Bucky, and to Sharon who was sitting in Steve's lap now, munching on a cookie, not caring as crumbs spilled down her front.

_He might,_ Clint agreed. _Is that bad?_

_I don't think so,_ Natasha replied. _Not all change is bad._

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in, kissing her temple, and she smiled and rested her cheek on his shoulder. Not every day would be like this, he knew... but he was glad that some days were.


	39. Chapter 39

"Mr. Barton? Mr. Barton!"

Clint snapped back to the here and now, shaking off the daydream (or maybe it was a real dream, and he'd actually dozed off) and turned his attention to his teacher. He had the feeling that his name had been called several times before the man made the decision to get pretty much right up in his face.

"So nice of you to join us," he said, and were teachers allowed to be that snide? "Social worker's office. Now."

For sleeping in class? Shouldn't that get him sent to the principal? Not that he wouldn't rather face Mr. Coulson than Mr. Fury – the worst that the social worker could do was look disappointed at him. Mr. Fury had the ability to make his life hell, and officially Clint still fell under him for discipline, rather than Ms. Hill, who was responsible for Natasha and Jessica due to potential conflicts of interest.

"Take your things," his teacher prompted, and so he dumped his notebook into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and left.

For half a second, he considered not going. But if he'd been summoned once, he would be summoned again if he didn't show up, and why be humiliated in more than one class? And anyway, maybe whatever it was was important. He wouldn't get called out of class if it wasn't, right? Had something happened at the Sullivans'? His stomach clenched and rolled unpleasantly at the thought. Maybe it was something that had to do with college. Good news? He hoped it was good news, but it was more likely bad news – oh by the way we made a mistake and there's no way we would ever let an idiot like you into our school, hopefully somewhere without standards will take you – but they couldn't do that, could they?

Except Bobbi had said at one point that they could. That they could offer you a spot and then if your grades went to shit they could retract the offer. But his grades were the same as they had been, maybe a little better, so that couldn't be it. So what? Money? He didn't have any, and that was a problem, but he'd thought he'd filled out all of the necessary paperwork to prove that he was broke, no one else was paying for him, and he was willing to sign away his soul, or at least mortgage it, for the next couple of decades to pay for an education that he still wasn't one hundred percent sure he could handle.

He yanked open the door to the social worker's office and stepped inside. Mr. Coulson was there at his desk, and sitting across from him was someone who he hadn't ever thought he would see again – Ms. Kelly, the social worker from Lewis's elementary school, who had said she would try to keep him posted but confidentiality and blah blah blah.

He was hit with a pang of guilt, because he hadn't actually thought about the poor kid in quite a while. He'd been wrapped up in his own stuff: school, and then the mess with Jess and Carol, and things with Steve and Bucky and Sharon and now looking for a place to live, and trying to figure out the rest of his life... The kid had slipped through the cracks. Just like he'd been afraid he was going to do at school, and in life in general, if someone didn't do something.

"Hello again," she said, standing up and offering a hand, a warm smile on her face. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," Clint said. "How are you?"

"I'm doing really well. Thank you for asking. I'm sorry to take you out of class, although I'm sure that by this point in your senior year, you don't really mind." 

He couldn't help laughing. "No, I guess I don't."

"Anyway, I won't keep you long, but I wanted to speak to you face to face, rather than calling you, which I know is more difficult for you."

"Thanks," Clint said. "I appreciate it." And he did. Like Mr. Coulson, Ms. Kelly seemed like one of the good ones, one of the people who went into their field wanting to help people and hadn't had it all squeezed out of them or dried up by actually doing it, and facing all that was messed up in the world, and all the ways that it came up with to screw kids over. She really seemed like she cared, and wanted what was best for the kids in her charge.

"Anyway, we've been doing a lot of back and forth with the parents, and although it's been an uphill battle, we've started to make some progress. It's so the opposite of what we usually run into, where parents are pushing for additional support for their child, and the school system is dragging its heels on it... although if we can get them to agree, there's still a chance of that..." Her voice trailed off, and her cheeks flushed. "Pretend you didn't hear me say that."

"Sorry, what was that?" Clint asked. "I didn't hear you." He tapped his hearing aid and grinned.

She laughed. "Good point. As I was saying, we've made some progress, and we're having a meeting with them soon to discuss what we'd like to set up for Lewis for the upcoming school year. I know that you and his father have had your differences in the past, but I was really hoping that you would come to the meeting." Before he could say anything, she held up her hand. "It's unorthodox, and you wouldn't need to be there for most of it, but we would really like to demonstrate for his parents the good that incorporating sign can do for him. But we've run into a roadblock, because he refuses to sign with anyone, and I thought, maybe, he would with you."

"But you don't know," Clint said.

"No," she admitted. "We don't. We don't know what his parents have said to him about it, or what they have done. Obviously he's not talking, and his father won't discuss it either. But we would like to try."

"I don't think it's a good idea," Clint said, after a moment's consideration. "His father really doesn't like me, and if you bring me there without them knowing it, when I'm not even any kind of professional, I think that's going to break any trust that you may have built up with him. Better to have someone who actually knows what they're doing work with him. I was just making it up as I went along anyway."

She looked at him, her mouth hanging slightly open like she'd been about to say something but been struck dumb before the words could make it past her lips. Finally, she nodded. She didn't look happy about it, but she nodded. "I see your point," she said. "I don't know if having someone else try it is going to garner any better results – because we _have_ tried – but maybe somehow I can convince him, or convince Lewis's mother and she can convince him, that it's in their son's best interest. If they are aware of it, that you will be interacting with Lewis again, and they approve it, then will you come?"

Clint frowned, then nodded. "If they know and agree, then I'll come." 

"All right. I'll let you know."

"Thanks."

He shook her hand when it was offered again, then headed back out into the halls as they began to fill up with students. He hadn't heard the bell... but that wasn't exactly uncommon. He went looking for Natasha, but didn't find her before he had to head to his next class, where he sat not processing anything that was being said. 

There was a part of him that had wanted to agree to the social worker's plan right off, wanted his presence to be a big old middle finger shoved in Lewis's father's face. But he'd realized pretty quickly that that was likely to backfire. He didn't know the man that well, but from what he'd seen he was enough like Clint's father that he could make a pretty good guess about how he would react to something like that, and the answer was Not Well. And there was a chance that he would take it out on Lewis as a result, and there was no way he was about to let that happen.

_You made the right choice, I think,_ Natasha said when he explained to her later what had happened. _Maybe not the choice you wanted to make, but the one that's best for Lewis._

_Do you think there's any chance that they'll agree to it?_ , Clint asked.

_I don't know,_ Natasha admitted. _I never really talked to them, and I don't know if they're both against Lewis getting help or just the father, and if it's just him, I don't know how much influence Lewis's mother has over him, but I suspect not much._ She paused, then asked, _Did she tell you when the meeting was?_

Clint shook his head. _I didn't ask._

_Hopefully you'll hear soon,_ Natasha said. _I know it's going to eat away at you until you do._

He smiled half-heartedly. _It's almost like you know me._

But he did hear soon. He heard the next day that Ms. Kelly had spoken to Lewis's mom, and she had agreed to the meeting, and for Clint to be included. Whether or not she had told her husband that Clint would be there remained unanswered, and whether or not Lewis would cooperate was equally uncertain, but the kid deserved a chance, and if Clint could help get him one, he would. At least it sounded like his mother was on his side. 

The meeting was set for Thursday after school – after elementary school, which got out later than the high school did – so after the final bell Clint headed over. He stopped at the front office to check in, and thankfully they were expecting him. They wrote him a name tag that designated him as a visitor and gave him directions on how to get to the social worker's office. He knew the basic layout of the school from doing tutoring, but he hadn't wandered around much. Thankfully, the directions were straightforward, and he arrived at Ms. Kelly's office without getting himself turned around. (Which honestly would have been pretty hard, as there were basically only three hallways in the entire school.)

"Come in!" she said brightly when he knocked. The door was already cracked open. He pushed through it and she looked up from a little table that appeared to serve as a desk, and smiled. "I'm so glad you could make it."

Clint smiled. "You're sure this isn't going to be a disaster?"

"No," she admitted, a little more cheerfully than Clint might have expected, "but I think at this point it may be the only chance that we have."

He nodded. "Do you know if he knows?"

"I don't," she admitted. "I _did_ ask Mrs. Becker to tell him, but of course she knows her husband better than I do, and maybe he's the sort of person who will keep quiet about something in public, even though he doesn't like it, just to not make a scene, and she's relying on that fact."

"Not in my experience," Clint said. "He made a pretty big scene the last time I saw Lewis, back before Christmas."

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I know," she said. "Or I heard. I'm hoping this will go better than that. I'm hoping that half a year's worth of progress reports – or in Lewis's case, _lack_ of progress reports – will convince him that something needs to be done." She smiled at him, but it was forced. "From what I was told by the speech therapists, intervention really should have started years ago."

There was another knock on the door, and a woman popped her head in the door to let Ms. Kelly know that the Beckers had arrived, and people were gathering in the conference room. "Thank you," Ms. Kelly said, then looked at Clint. "We're on."

He followed her back toward the office, and she opened the door to a small room where several people were gathered – teachers, Clint figured, and maybe the speech therapist that had been mentioned – but before he could even get a look at Mr. Becker to see how pissed off he was about the whole thing, he was nearly knocked over by a small body colliding with his legs.

"Oof!" he said, looking down, gingerly putting his hands on Lewis to try and pry him off, wanting to touch him as little as possible not because _he_ had a problem with it but because he thought that his father might. "Wow, look at you," he said. "You've gotten taller since last time I saw you."

Lewis beamed up at him and babbled a response. He was no more intelligible now than he had been, and he wondered if it was just his excitement, or if he was always like this, and if that was the case, how his teachers ever understood him. A quick glance in their direction, and the frowns on their faces, told him that maybe they didn't.

"If it's all right with you, Mr. and Mrs. Becker, we'd like to get started without Lewis in the room? It's not going to be very interesting for him, and we thought he might like a chance to catch up with his friend," Ms. Kelly said, her smile bright and warm, but Clint could see the hint of fear in her eyes, worried that her plan wouldn't work. She was trying to buy him time to get Lewis signing again. She hadn't said she would, but it made sense.

He just hoped it worked.

He could tell that Mr. Becker didn't like the idea, but he nodded grudgingly. His wife looked slightly more enthusiastic about the idea, but not much. She mostly just looked worn down, worn out, like she had been fighting a battle for way too long and there was still no end in sight.

So Clint stayed out in the hall with Lewis, and the door of the conference room closed, with instructions from Ms. Kelly to knock if they needed anything.

"How are you?" Clint asked, speaking and signing at the same time. "I haven't seen you in a long time."

Lewis stuck out his lower lip and nodded, making a big show of sadness, more than he likely felt, although maybe not. He plunked down next to Clint on the floor, close enough that he could feel the heat coming from the little boy's skin, and began digging around in his backpack, pulling out his folder and opening it, but there was nothing inside.

"No homework?" Clint asked. "That's a smart idea, getting it done while we're out here, but I guess there's none to do."

Lewis shook his head, then pulled out a book and thrust it at Clint.

So they sat and read, and Clint tried to incorporate signs where he could, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Lewis mimicking them, just little gestures, half-formed, and then he would stop himself. 

He waited until they'd read the last page, then turned to face him. "Do you know why I'm here?" he asked.

Lewis shook his head. 

"Do you know why your parents are here talking to your teachers and everyone?" Clint asked. Same answer. "It's because we want to help you," Clint said. "We all know that talking is hard for you, and we want to help make that easier, but also we want to help you find other ways to communicate while you're working on talking, so that you aren't always frustrated and left out of everything."

Lewis hung his head, and although Clint had only suspected that that was how Lewis was feeling (based on his observations of him over the summer and things that Ms. Kelly had said), he was pretty sure he'd guessed right. 

"Do you remember this summer, when we were learning to sign together, to help me understand you because my ears don't work so well?"

Lewis nodded. 

"We thought that maybe you could work with someone who would help you with speaking, but also help you with learning more signs, and then you could teach the signs to your teachers and the other kids," Clint said. "Then they could understand you better. It would be like your own secret language that you could share with people, and then they could understand you, but no one else could. You would be almost like a superhero, with a secret identity, except it would be your own secret code language."

He had no idea where the idea came from, except that Lewis was wearing a Superman shirt, and maybe it meant nothing to him and it was just something he wore, but maybe it did mean something, and maybe it would get through to him and whatever bullshit his father had filled his head with.

He knew he'd scored a point when he saw Lewis's eyes light up, and his back straightened. 

"But first we have to show your parents, so that they'll let you work with someone to learn," Clint said. "So do you remember the signs that we learned over the summer?" 

Lewis frowned, biting his lip, but slowly nodded. 

"Good," Clint said, still signing as he went. "That's great. I know that your dad said that he didn't want you signing, right?" Another nod. "But it's okay today, so we can show him. We're not going to let him yell at you, or do anything else. Okay?"

Lewis nodded, and then his small fingers formed two letters. _OK._

Clint smiled, and they spent the next few minutes just running through different signs that Clint remembered teaching him, and quite a few that he had forgotten about, or maybe that Lewis had just picked up along the way, without Clint making a specific point to make sure that he knew.

Finally the door of the conference room opened, and Ms. Kelly had them come back in. They sat down facing each other at one end of the table, and Clint watched Lewis fidget uneasily as the lone kid in a room full of adults, several of which didn't look all that happy to be there, or maybe the discussion just hadn't been going well. Mr. Becker certainly looked like he would rather be anywhere but here.

"We wanted to give you a demonstration of how some of the techniques would work," Ms. Kelly said. "Obviously there is going to be intensive speech therapy, but in order to alleviate some of everyone's frustration, and Lewis's acting out behavior, keyword signing can be an absolutely life-saving tool. You don't have to know every sign in the book, just a basic vocabulary of critical words that will help him communicate his point to you while he works on articulating clearly. It's like when a baby is first learning to talk, and not all of the words are clear, but you can pick out certain ones that convey the gist of what they're saying, even if you're not picking up all of the words. But in place of a few clearly articulated words – although of course we'll be working for those, too – there will be signs."

"How do we know this wasn't all rehearsed?" Mr. Becker asked. "How do we know this really works?"

"Why don't you ask Lewis a question?" Ms. Kelly suggested. "He won't know what you're going to ask, but he can answer it, and Clint can tell you what he said."

Mr. Becker didn't look thrilled, but Mrs. Becker looked willing to try anything. So she asked, "Lewis, what did you do in school today?"

Lewis looked at his father nervously, but he began to answer, mostly speaking (and mostly not intelligible) but throwing in enough signs that Clint was able to convey, like Ms. Kelly had said, the gist of it. When he finished, Mrs. Becker looked at Lewis, question marks all over her face. "Is that it?" she asked. "Is that what you said?"

Lewis nodded enthusiastically, then was off again, and Clint could hardly keep up, because the little boy's hands flew around in his excitement at being understood.

"We just have a few more things that we need to discuss," Ms. Kelly said, after a few more minutes of questions and answers, with Lewis's mom getting more and more excited about the fact that she could actually talk to her son... with Clint's help... and his father looking more and more like a thundercloud. "Do you mind waiting in the hall again?"

"Sure," Clint said. "I just wanted to say one more thing." She nodded to him, so he looked right and Lewis's parents, and kept signing and speaking. "At camp this summer, Lewis ended up in my group because everyone else had such a hard time understanding him that they didn't know what to do. In my group, we figured out that this would help him talk not just to me but to his peers as well. By the end of the summer, he had a few other kids who were signing with him - _friends_ that he could talk to. He was a completely different kid at the end of the summer than he was at the beginning. No one is trying to teach him how to be disabled, if that's even a thing. We're trying to teach him ways to get through life until he can get past the prob—challenges he already has. I think this can help. And I think letting him come back to summer camp to be with his friends again will too. And I'm willing to work with him this summer again, if you'll let me. Because I think Lewis is an awesome kid, whose tongue is just getting in the way right now of people getting to know how awesome he is."

And then he went back out into the hall with Lewis, and hugged him tight, and listened to him jabber for a little while longer. He was exhausted, more than it seemed like he should be for how little he'd done, but he hadn't actually planned the little speech, and he was still expecting Mr. Becker to flip out on him, so he guessed maybe that was more draining than he'd thought.

The door opened again, and Mr. and Mrs. Becker came out. "Thank you," Lewis's mother said. "You've given us a lot to think about." His father didn't say anything, but he also didn't object when Lewis hugged Clint again.

"I'll see you soon, I hope," Clint told him, and Lewis gave him a thumb's up, which maybe wasn't really sign language, but it got the point across anyway.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who receive notifications when the chapter is posted, you're probably surprised to see this coming through a day early. (Or 12 hours, roughly, anyway.) I'm actually posting to say that, well, I'm not posting.
> 
> Or I'm not posting yet. This week's chapter will be late. Not because it's not written - it is! - but because my laptop _literally_ spontaneously combusted. There was smoke and everything. 
> 
> The good news (if there can be said to be good news when one's laptop goes from fully functional to utterly dead in less than a second) is that it was probably the motherboard, and there is probably no damage to my hard drive. My data is probably not gone.
> 
> The bad news is that because this happened Thursday afternoon, the soonest my new one will arrive is sometime on Monday, and then I have to get my friend's friend the computer guy to come over and take the hard drive out of the old laptop and transfer the files to the new one... assuming that they are not, in fact, damaged. So the _soonest_ the chapter will post is Monday night, depending on when he can get here.
> 
> If the files are damaged, I'll have to rewrite the chapter on Tuesday and post it then. Or if he doesn't show up until Tuesday night and then I discover the files are gone... well, the chapter will post when it posts, pretty much.
> 
> Sorry to let you all down, but I will get it done as soon as I can!
> 
> **ETA (Saturday):** Okay, I'm sorry, I suck. My hard drive ended up being dead, so I couldn't get my files back, and then there was all kinds of drama with my car, and I had to work, and so I just now actually rewrote this chapter, which is something and nothing like what I originally wrote - I think it might actually be a little less bleak so I guess that's something? - but anyway it's short and lame and the next chapter will probably also be short and lame and I'm sorry for that.

"Thank you for coming," Bobbi said, sitting down at the table across from Clint and Natasha. "I know it's kind of lame, but..." She shrugged. "It's the thought that counts, right?" 

"Right," Clint agreed. He couldn't really argue the lame part of things; the party was kind of lame. Bobbi's mother had decided that she would throw a combined graduation and 18th birthday party for her daughter, since the two events were less than two weeks apart, and in theory it was a good idea, but in practice...

Well, in practice it turned out that relatives, old soccer friends (that Clint was pretty sure Bobbi wasn't really friend with anymore and never had been), school friends, drama club kids, Tae Kwon Do friends (which was some kind of miracle, and he wondered how much cajoling Bobbi had had to do to get them invited in the first place, or if she'd just decided she didn't care and invited them without telling her mother) and various doctors and nurses (Clint was surprised any of them had showed up) didn't really mix. All of the groups had staked out their own spaces in the pavilion, and no one was really interacting.

It didn't help that the sky was gloomy and gray and threatening rain at any moment, like it had for the last several days, leaving the expanses of lawn in the park soggy with patches of mud. Really, it kind of felt like if there was anything that could go wrong, or nearly wrong, with a party, it was, or had, or whatever. 

"I'm sick of talking to people that I barely know," Bobbi said. "It's like she kept a list of everyone I've ever met, and sent them an invitation, and..." She sighed. "It just doesn't look like it adds up to much, does it?"

"It's more than I would have," Clint pointed out. "If I had a graduation party, it would be me, you guys, and the Sullivans, and that's pretty much it. I have no idea where the rest of the people I've known in my life are. I guess if I really wanted to find out I could look up where the circus had gone."

"Everyone I know before this is in Russia or jail," Natasha said. "So could be worse."

"Or they could be brainwashed and living in a cult," Jessica said. "That's also an option."

Bobbi laughed. "Okay, okay, you have a point. Still... I wish there had been some way to arrange to have a party with the grown-ups and then something else with my friends. My real friends, that I actually like." Her eyes darted to a cluster of soccer girls, who were eyeing the Tae Kwon Do kids like they thought they might jump up and attack them at any moment. It was like they could see that they were fellow jocks or something, but at the same time they knew they weren't part of _their_ sport and that made them suspect.

"We could try to get something going," Steve offered. "Frisbee, maybe?"

"I don't think that would be the greatest idea," Pepper said, looking out. "It looks like the grass is pretty wet, and someone might slip and hurt themselves."

"Thanks for the warning, Mom," Tony teased. 

Pepper looked at him, her brow creased with annoyance and her lips pursed. "If you want to go out there, be my guest," she said tartly. "I don't care if you get hurt."

Tony clutched his chest. "Obviously," he said, "because you wound me!"

She rolled her eyes. "I don't have time for your childishness," she said. "When are you going to grow up?"

"I don't plan on growing up," Tony said. "Growing old is inevitable, but I personally feel that growing up is optional."

"Right... then why don't you fly off to Never-Never Land and hang out with the rest of the Lost Boys?"

"Only if you come with me, Wendy-bird," Tony replied. 

"And we're back to the mother thing," Pepper said. "Do you realize how messed up that story actually is, when you get right down to it? It's like the ultimate male fantasy of never having to grow up, never having to take responsibility for anything, and there's a woman there to look after you and take care of you while you get to be an eternal child. That's so... everything that's wrong with our culture."

"Don't," Jessica said, before Carol could reply. "Whether she's right or wrong, just don't. This is supposed to be a party, not debate club."

"I was going to agree with her," Carol said.

"You were going to rant. You know that you won't be allowed to do that in the army, right? You won't be able to think at all, or have opinions, or—"

"Number one, I'm not joining the Army," Carol said. "I'm joining the Air Force. Number two – they can't actually keep you from thinking. It's not going to change who I am at my core. The only thing that it's going to do is give me some direction, some focus, and then eventually some money for college so that I can actually build some kind of life, which I can't afford to do otherwise without having to basically mortgage my soul, and do you think that's any less soul-crushing? Being buried under mountains of debt, do you think that that's not going to damage a person? I know that maybe you don't understand how the real world—"

"You'd better stop right there," Jessica said, and it was like the temperature dropped ten degrees around them. "Do not even think about telling me that I don't know how the real world works when I have seen more of it than you probably ever will, even sheltered in the little bubble of insanity that I was raised in. You think you know me, think you know everything about me, but there are things you don't know, Carol Danvers, things that _no one_ knows and never will, or at least not if they decide to get stick-up-the-ass holier-than-thou with me about it."

Carol held up her hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was out of line. And you're right. For all that I complain, for the most part my life has been pretty good, and a lot of my problems I've created on my own, and it's not fair for me to say that you don't know what the world is like. But you have to understand, Jess, that if I'm ever going to actually experience the world, if I'm ever going to figure out my place in it, and have a chance of finding a way that doesn't lead to destruction, this is what I need."

"So you've said," Jess said. "Over and over and over again."

"And we're all kind of sick of hearing it," Tony said, "so could you maybe—"

"Butt out," Pepper said. "You don't get to decide—"

"Guys," Bobbi said. "Please. This is supposed to be a party and I know as far as parties go this isn't the best one ever, but could we please at least pretend to not be miserable for a little while? I know that we're all stressed out with finals coming up, but really – it's pretty much over. The summer is here and we have a few months to enjoy it, and each other, before we scatter. So can we just not fight? Today? Here? Now?"

"Sorry," Jessica, Carol, Tony and Pepper all said together, although Clint got the feeling that only Pepper really meant it. But Bobbi was right. This wasn't the time or the place, and he was also kind of sick of hearing Carol and Jess go at it over the same thing over and over again. Sometimes he thought that they should just break up already, but the trouble was he didn't think that they would be any happier broken up than they were together, because for all that they disagreed on the decision that Carol was making (and it was a pretty huge thing to disagree about), they still loved each other, and that was _why_ it was a continuous battle, and they wouldn't stop loving each other just because they split up. 

Once again he wondered if somehow Natasha had developed the ability to read his mind somewhere along the line, because she reached over and squeezed his hand under the table. He squeezed back, maybe a little more tightly than he'd meant to, but she didn't seem to mind. At least they were all right. They still hadn't found a place to live in Boston, but the realtor said that things would really start opening up soon, and she was confident that she would be able to find them a place that would suit their needs. Whatever happened, they would be together. 

"Is anyone else having a graduation party?" Bobbi asked. 

"Not me," Clint said. "The Sullivans offered, but like I said, it would be pretty lame."

"Not me either," Natasha replied. "Not us, I should say." Since if she had a graduation party, it would automatically include Jessica. Not that they had separate groups of friends or anything. "What is point, when I see everyone I would invite all the time?"

"I am," Pepper said with a sigh. 

"What?" Tony's head jerked up from where he'd been staring down at his phone. "I didn't get an invitation!"

"No, you didn't," Pepper said. "Although I'm actually a little surprised about that, given that you're a Stark. Maybe you were included on your father's invitation."

"My...?" Tony looked at her, puzzled. "Why would my father be invited?"

"Because he's important," Pepper said. "Only the most important, influential people will be there. Because it's my graduation party, so of course it's all about my parents and their friends. They were nice enough to invite me as the guest of honor, though." She rolled her eyes.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Carol said. "Who throws a party for their kid and doesn't actually let them invite anyone?"

"My life has never been about me," Pepper said. "They say it is, but it's not. It's about them. I'm just an accessory."

"What about Loki?" Steve asked. "Is he having a party? You had a great one when you graduated," he said, looking at Thor.

"No," Thor said. "He didn't want one. He says he has more important things to do after graduation."

"Like what?" Steve asked. 

"Go to other people's parties, I guess," Thor said. "He didn't really elaborate. He tries to say as little as possible to us these days." His shoulders slumped, and he looked like a big golden kicked puppy. "I'm worried about him."

No one tried to tell him not to be, because the truth was, from what they'd seen, something was definitely going on with Loki lately. He'd been looking even more pale and pinched and irritated than usual, and when he showed up to their little not a support group at all, it was generally to either glower silently and not contribute anything constructive, or to gripe about anything and everything.

"If there's anything any of us can do, let us know," Steve said, reaching out to pat Thor's arm. "You know that we've got your back."

"I know." Thor stood up and looked out toward the fields that surrounded the pavilion. "You know, it looks like the sun is actually trying to come out," he said. "Maybe we should get out there and cheer it on."

"You're not _really _going to cheer for the sun, are you?" Bobbi asked. "Because I love you guys, but I would really rather not have my entire extended family thinking that I've completely lost my mind, or that my friends are all insane."__

__"You're in luck," Thor said. "I left my pompoms at home. But maybe we could get some Frisbee going after all?"_ _

__"You know what?" Bobbi said. "Screw it. Let's go. What's the worst that could happen?"_ _

__The worst that could happen, it turned out, was that they would all end up smeared with mud and grass stains, but it was worth it to see the party come to life a little, as the young people from the other groups got up to join them. Clint was pretty sure they weren't setting any world records for the largest Frisbee game, but they managed to cover some pretty impressive expanses of lawn, and by the end he wasn't sure they hadn't absorbed people from other groups in other pavilions, but who cared? They were having fun, and wasn't that was parties were supposed to be about?_ _

__They only stopped when Bobbi's mother called them all in for cake (which Jessica grumbled about being some cheap grocery store bakery thing, and that she could have done better if they'd only _asked_ , and why did no one ever _ask_?) and shortly after that, they all started to go their separate ways, and even though school wasn't even completely over yet, it felt like the end of something, and the beginning of something else, and it was an uneasy feeling, but Natasha was at his side, and that was what mattered most, and all he could do was hope that it would be enough._ _


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Make sure you go back and read last week's chapter (which finally posted yesterday) before this one! Once again, I'm so sorry about the delay. Having your computer die on you sucks.

"Explain to me again why this is necessary," Jessica grumbled. She was sitting on the ledge outside the front doors of the school, her feet dangling down, and sipping something that was sort of radioactive in color, and probably pure sugar. Not the best choice right before a final, Clint thought, but then he wasn't sure coffee was really any better in the long run. Was the high from caffeine longer-lived than the one from sugar? 

That was the sort of thing that they _ought_ to teach them to prepare for college, instead of the square root of pi or whatever. (Not that he knew the square root of pi, but he knew where the pi symbol was on his calculator, and where the square root button was, and since they were allowed to use their calculators on the math final, he was all set. Not that it was likely to come up. He just knew that square roots and pi were mathematical, and that was the best that he could do this early in the morning.

"Because we have to prove one last time that we can regurgitate everything they have shoved down our throats all year," Natasha replied. 

"But it doesn't _mean_ anything," Jessica said. "We're going to graduate no matter what. Finals don't matter."

"They might for some people," Clint said. "I mean, if your grade is borderline, the final might count for enough that it will make the difference between passing and failing, and if you fail then you have to take summer school if you actually want to graduate."

"Are any of your grades like that?" Jess asked. "Because mine aren't. I am a perfectly mediocre student, and I'm happy to keep it that way."

Clint was pretty sure that that meant she kept her grades somewhere in the B range (he didn't think that Mr. Fury would tolerate less), and he was pretty sure that it was on purpose. If she'd really wanted to, if she'd tried, she could have gotten A's, at least in some of her classes, but Clint suspected she'd actively tried to not distinguish herself in any direction. She'd stayed below the radar, and now she was getting out without ever having made a mark on much of anything, and she was okay with that.

It was something that he could understand, really, but he'd never been able to do it as well as she had, because it was all over his file that he was Special Needs or whatever, although he suspected some of his teachers either hadn't read it or didn't care, because they didn't make any kind of accommodation for him at all, which was fine, except sometimes they would decide to do an entire lecture with their back more or less to him, and so most of it had just been lost to him.

Still, he had done all right, and like Jess said, finals didn't really mean much. Even if he didn't do so great, they weren't going to tip any of his grades into the realm of failing. He was free and clear for the summer, and free and clear (of high school), for the rest of his life, as of this time next week.

"Just do it," Natasha said, "and don't complain. You think there will be no tests in your school for cooking?"

"Culinary school," Jessica said, "and not like this. Only on things that actually matter. Like... I dunno, how to butcher a cow or something."

"You have to butcher a cow?" Clint asked. 

"It's already dead," Jessica said. "We don't have to kill it. But yes, I'm pretty sure in one of my classes we have to learn how to cut up a side of beef into the various steaks and roasts and whatever. Which is kind of disgusting and kind of awesome all at once."

Natasha snorted. "Only you would think that."

"That's because I'm awesome," Jess said. "How many more days of this shit do we have to put up with?"

"Just two," Clint said. "Today and tomorrow, and then graduation is on Monday."

"Why it is on Monday, I don't know," Natasha said. "This seems like stupid day to have ceremony. Before was on Saturday morning, when people can come to visit and see."

"No one is coming to see us," Jess said. "Except Mr. Fury, and that's only because he has to be there anyway."

Clint didn't think that was actually true – even if he wasn't the principal and had to be there anyway, like Jess said, he was 99% sure that Mr. Fury would have shown up to watch them graduate. He was their foster father, after all, and although he was generally pretty low key about it, he took it seriously. The Sullivans would be there, or at least Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. They'd arranged to have a relief person come and watch the boys for a few hours so that they didn't have to drag them along and worry about either of them (but especially Connor) causing a scene and forcing one or both of them to leave early. Clint had tried to tell them that they didn't need to, that it would probably be boring, but they said that they would be there, that he was the first of their foster kids to actually stay with them through high school and they would feel like failures as parents if they weren't there. He had known it was futile to argue, so he'd just given in.

There was a tiny, stupid part of him that thought maybe, somehow, Barney would show up, but he knew that that wasn't actually going to happen. He hadn't ever actually told his brother the name of his school that he could remember, and he doubted his brother would be motivated enough to look it up, and anyway he hadn't known what grade they'd put Clint in and probably he would assume that Clint had flunked or dropped out and... yeah. It was stupid to even think there was even a remote chance of his brother turning up.

Barney was gone. He had to learn to be okay with that. Hell, he _was_ okay with it, except he wanted to prove his brother wrong, to show him that he could be something, someone, that he could set out to do something and do it, that he could find a place in the real world and that he was more than just a carney.

The bell rang, stopping his thoughts from chasing around his head in circles, and he stood up, offering a hand to Natasha, and then to Jess when she didn't move. "You have to do it," he told her. "Mr. Fury would kill you if you didn't."

She sighed and took his hand, letting herself be hauled up. "Okay," she said, "but I'm not going to like it."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "No one said you had to."

They went into the school, finding the rooms where their finals were being held (Clint in one of the gyms, Jess in another, and Natasha in the cafeteria). Natasha pushed herself up on her toes and kissed him softly before they parted ways. _Good luck,_ she signed. _See you soon._

_And you,_ he signed back. Not that she needed luck. She would be fine. Natasha Romanova always came out on top, even when facing down quadratic equations.

They made it through their finals the next day, and then on Friday both of the girls got to leave after the morning session because neither of them had a final in the afternoon. He looked around when he got out to see if maybe Natasha had stuck around, but she hadn't. Instead he found Bobbi, who smiled and waved and came over. 

"Ride late?" he asked.

"Not really," Bobbi said. "I told her to come at the end of the session, but then I finished early – obviously you did too – and I knew she wasn't going to be on time anyway, since she's at work, so I'm just hanging out."

"Can you get a hold of her?" Clint asked. "Tell her that you don't need a ride? I can take you home."

"You don't have to do that," Bobbi said. "I don't mind."

"I know I don't _have to_ ," Clint said. "But I'm offering. Anyway, I've been abandoned and I feel like the end of our last final ever deserves celebrating, so I'm going out for ice cream, and I'm bringing you along. My treat."

Bobbi blinked, then grinned. "Who am I to argue with that?" She sent a text to her mother, and a minute later got one in return saying okay, so she picked up her bag and followed him to his car.

"There's actually a place we can walk to from my house," Clint said. "We can just park there and go."

"You're the boss," Bobbi said. "Although I do feel compelled to point out to you that we have not, in fact, taken our last final ever. Assuming that we each attend college for four years, we will take finals eight more times, since it will be every semester instead of every year. And that's assuming that your school operates on a semester system, not a trimester system, and also that you don't take any summer courses, or that if you do they don't actually cut time off of how long you're actually in school."

"I take back my offer of ice cream," Clint teased. "You have burst my bubble."

Bobbi stuck her tongue out at him as she got into the passenger's seat. "Sorry to inject a little reality into your world."

"We've taken our last _high school_ final ever, and that _still_ deserves celebration," Clint said. 

"So ice cream is back on?" Bobbi asked. 

"Only because I want some," Clint said. He turned the key in the ignition, and conversation pretty much had to stop while he was driving, because he couldn't focus on the road and her face at the same time. It wasn't a very long drive home – the only reason he'd driven at all that morning was because it had been raining – and he parked in the driveway. "Come on," he said. "Before Mrs. Sullivan sees us."

"Really?"

"I don't feel like getting into the whole introduction thing right now," Clint said. "After, if you _really_ want to."

"Whatever you say, boss," Bobbi said, and fell into step beside him as they headed toward the ice cream place. They walked pretty much in silence, because again, it was hard to walk and walk and not trip, and Clint suddenly wondered if it was strange that he was having a hard time remembering what it had been like when he had had his hearing and none of this stuff was complicated. It was like the explosion hadn't just shattered his eardrums, it had fractured his memory as well. Or maybe he just didn't really _want_ to remember.

They got their ice cream, and sat down to eat it. "Did I tell you that my school has a language requirement?" Bobbi asked. "One of the options that they offer is American Sign Language, so I'm going to take that."

"That's cool," Clint said, but it was more than cool. It was awesome, and touching, and he felt a lump in his throat that made his next bite of ice cream hard to swallow. "If you ever need any help studying, you can Skype me or whatever."

"You mean that?" Bobbi asked. 

"Of course I mean it," Clint said. "I don't say things I don't mean." Not to friends, anyway, and Bobbi had definitely proven herself to be a friend. He kind of wished that she was going to school in Boston with them, but she wouldn't be so far away. Eight hours or something like that, which could be done in a weekend if they were determined, and if they took the train they could even study or do homework along the way.

"I might take you up on it," she said. "We'll see how it goes."

"You'll be fine," Clint said. "It's not rocket science." He signed the words along with saying them, and Bobbi grinned. 

"That's good," she said, "because that's not my area of study either."

"I'm not going to miss high school," Clint said, "but I'm going to miss this. Miss all of you."

"I know," Bobbi said. "But we'll see each other. I have no doubt of that." She smiled. "After you've died once, and almost died a second time, you kind of make it a priority to make time for the things that really matter. And you really matter, Clint Barton. Don't forget that."

And there was that damn lump again, big and painful enough that the words he wanted to say wouldn't come out. So he signed instead, _You too, Bobbi,_ and hoped that she understood.


	42. Chapter 42

_Are we ready for this?_ , Clint asked Natasha, catching her eyes through the mirror as he tried for the third time to get the knot in his tie right. 

_It's easier if you don't look in the mirror,_ she said. _It just makes it more confusing, because it makes it look like you're doing the opposite of what you're doing. Come here._

_I've got it,_ Clint insisted, but what did he actually know about tying ties? He'd watched a YouTube video... and discovered it was for some fancy knot that was actually impossible for human beings to recreate with only two hands, so obviously the person who invented it was some kind of multi-limbed alien, and they'd filmed the video with some kind of stop motion action to make it seem like there were only two hands doing it. 

_You don't have it,_ Natasha said. _You're making a mess of it and look, one end is six inches longer than the other._

He had the urge to make a dirty joke about that, but he didn't think she would appreciate it, and anyway it would only give away how nervous he was. When the going got tough, Clint Barton made bad jokes. It was just the way of the universe. Except this morning it felt like the universe had been turned on its head... again. How many times was this going to happen this year? This month? With finding a place to live and going off to school, it was going to happen at least once more in the next few months.

Which brought him back to his original question: Are we ready for this?

_Come here,_ Natasha insisted. _Sit down._

He sat, and she came up behind him and reached around him, neatly sorting the tie into a knot, with the ends exactly as they should be, and then kissed his ear. _There,_ she signed. _You look perfect._

_Except for the part where my hair is sticking up,_ Clint said, trying to smooth it down in the back, but it was a lost cause.

_It's part of your style,_ Natasha said, and wrapped her arms around him again, this time to hug him. He brought his hands up and laid them over her arms, squeezing gently back. What had he ever done to deserve her? This was not the kind of girl that Barton men ended up with. This was the kind of girl that they didn't even know how to dream about.

But she wouldn't be with him if he didn't deserve it somehow, right? If he hadn't earned it? Because love wasn't something that was just given, no matter what the books and movies said. Or maybe it was, it could be, at first, but it was something that you had to work to keep. You had to earn that person's continued affection, and respect. You couldn't just do whatever you wanted and expect them to just hang on and come along for the ride. Not without giving something back.

_What are you thinking?_ , she asked, still looking at him through the mirror. 

_I'm thinking that I thought this day would never come, and now that it's here, I don't really know how to feel about it,_ Clint said, in a moment of absolute honesty that he hadn't really meant to have. Not that he minded her knowing what was going on in his head, and even if he did mind he didn't have a choice about it because she could read him like a book. She asked out of politeness.

_Me either,_ she admitted, finally letting him go so she could come around and look at him face to face. _I didn't think... back in the beginning, when I first started school, when everything was new and before even..._ She stopped herself. _I didn't know what to think. But from there start there was you, and everywhere I turned there was you, and even when I told you to stay away there was you._ She smiled, just the faintest upturn of the corners of her mouth. _Thank you._

_What was I supposed to do?_ , Clint asked. _I couldn't just abandon you._

_You could have,_ Natasha said. _You didn't. You chose not to._

_You were the only friend I had._

Natasha shook her head. _You didn't have to be my friend. You could have just done the job that Mr. Coulson asked you to, and then at the end of those few days never spoken to me again. Instead..._ She trailed off, her gaze drifting slightly to the side.

_Instead?_

_Instead, from the beginning, you fought to be my friend. You fought **me** to be my friend, and I think you fought yourself, too. You instinct was to stay away, to not get attached, but you couldn't do it. From the start, something drew you to me... and me to you... and when that was hard, you found a way to make it easy. When we could barely understand each other, you found a way to make it work. When things got harder, and harder, and harder... you kept fighting. And I don't think I ever said thank you for that._

Clint could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. _You don't have to say thank you,_ he said. _You never had to say thank you. I just did what a friend... more than a friend... should do._

_We weren't more than friends then,_ Natasha said. 

Clint looked at her, in stillness and silence until he was sure that she was completely focused on him, and then he said, _We were **always** more than friends, Natasha Romanova._

She kissed him then, and many seconds ticked by before she pulled away, and then she had to clean off his face and reapply her lipstick because blood red wasn't his color. 

_Time to go,_ she said, and Clint assumed that that meant Mr. Fury had called up the stairs to them to come down, because neither of them was paying attention to the clock. He grabbed his hearing aids from the nightstand and stuffed them in his ears, switching them on before grabbing his stupid polyester road and ridiculous square hat and heading down the stairs.

"What about your foster parents?" Mr. Fury asked. "Aren't they going to want pictures?"

"I'm meeting them there," Clint said. "They can take pictures after." They – really, Mrs. Sullivan – hadn't been thrilled about him spending the night not at home on the day before graduation, but he hadn't really left much room for argument. So they had agreed on a meeting spot for before the ceremony, and another for after, and let him go.

Mr. Fury nodded. "Are you riding with me or taking your own car?"

"My own, since I don't know if I'm coming back here tonight... or where we might want to go before I do."

"All right. Who are you riding with, Jessica?"

"I'm not going," Jessica responded, crossing her arms. "You know I'm graduating. You don't need to see it. There is no reason for me to be there."

"We've been over this, Jessica," Mr. Fury said, not-so-patiently anymore, because it sounded like this was an argument that they'd already had several times. "You are going to graduation. You are going to walk across that stage, and you are going to get your diploma, and you're going to let me take a goddamned picture of you while you do it."

"You can't," Jessica said. "You're going to be on the stage. What are you going to do? Whip out your phone in the middle of everything?"

"Maybe," Mr. Fury said. "Would that embarrass you?" Jessica rolled her eyes. "Anyway, there's a photographer there, so _they_ can take a picture of you if I can't, but in order for me to get that picture, you have to be there."

"You know that you're the only one who cares if I'm there, right?" Jess said. "There is no one else that's going to show up for me."

"Carol," Natasha said. "Carol will be there."

"Maybe," Jess said. "Maybe not."

Which probably meant they'd had another fight. If it had been last night, it must have been after he'd taken his hearing aids out, because he hadn't heard anything. Or maybe they'd actually had it somewhere other than the house. 

"I told her not to bother," Jessica added. "I told her I wasn't going."

"And you told her that that was because you were afraid that people you didn't want to find you would figure out what school you were attending and show up," Mr. Fury said. "Yes, she told me. She was looking out for you. She wanted to make sure that there was no possibility that that could actually happen. I reassured her that measures had been to taken to ensure that that didn't happen. You're safe here, Jessica, just like you've always been safe. And even if they did show up, what are they going do to? You're eighteen. You're your own woman, and they can't control you anymore. So if they did show up, all they would get to see was you walking across that stage, proving to them that they don't control you anymore."

"Damn her," Jessica growled, under her breath, but finally she said, "I'm riding with Clint."

Clint didn't even think about saying anything to the contrary.

"She will come," Natasha said, once the car was rolling and Jessica couldn't decide to try and jump out of the car and run... at least not without risking serious injury. "You know she will."

"I don't care if she does or doesn't," Jessica said. 

"We both know that is a lie," Natasha said. "Why do you think lying to yourself will make things better?"

"I don't think it will make it better," Jessica said. "But if I say it enough times, maybe it will make it true."

Natasha snorted. "It will not. I can promise you this."

"Whatever," Jessica said, and spent the rest of the ride glaring out the window like the landscape had wronged her.

When they got to the school, the girls went inside and Clint went to find the Sullivans. He was surprised to find that Mr. Sullivan's parents were also there. He'd only met them a few times – the Christmas party he and Natasha had left so abruptly, and at a couple of gatherings after – and he didn't think they would have any interest in sitting through some boring ceremony to watch a kid they barely knew graduate. But there they were, offering hugs and handshakes, which he accepted mostly because he was too confused to object.

"You're our first grandchild to graduate," Mrs. Sullivan – Mr. Sullivan's mom, not his wife – said. "We couldn't miss it."

"I'm not—" Clint started, then stopped himself. "Thank you for coming."

"We thought you might need a little more of a cheering section," Mr. Sullivan-the-elder said with a smile. "Although I'm sure you've got friends that have got you covered." 

"I guess," Clint said. "A lot of them are graduating, too. Some have already graduated, but they'll be here, probably."

"Well, we won't keep you from it," he replied. 

"Just remember to find us after so that we can get some pictures," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Then you're free for the night. I'm sure you have parties you've been invited to."

"Thanks," Clint said, and went to find where he was supposed to be. He put on his gown and Natasha helped him get his hat on the right way. _It feels like it's going to fall off,_ he complained, switching to sign because the cacophony of a couple of hundred kids in a single room was more than he could handle. 

_Just don't move your head too much,_ she replied. _I would pin it to your hair but you don't have enough to do that._ She pointed to the pins that held her cap in place.

_Too bad,_ Clint said. _Well, if it falls off it won't be the first time I've made an ass of myself, right?_

_And it won't be the last,_ she teased. 

They were called to line up, at which point they all discovered that the minute that you were released from high school, you immediately forgot the first thing you were ever taught in school – your ABCs. Getting everyone lined up in alphabetical order took much longer than it should have, because people were talking with their friends and not paying attention, but finally they were all in order, and someone – was it Ms. Hill? – led them toward the large gym where graduation was being held. It was supposed to be outside on the football field, but it had been pouring rain all day and even though it looked like there was a break in the weather, the ground would be muddy, and some girl would probably break an ankle when her high heel sunk into the sod.

There was music playing as they processed in, and Clint's eyes swept the crowd for signs of his friends. He spotted them all grouped together, waving and cheering, and farther down the bleachers he saw his foster parents and he guessed foster grandparents, smiling and taking pictures. Clint smiled back and quickly reached up to switch off his hearing aids, hoping no one noticed.

Once everyone was settled and quiet, he turned them back on, figuring he'd better have some clue of what was going on so he didn't miss anything important, like his name being called or something. Although, as it turned out, he needn't have worried, because seated off to one side of the small stage that had been erected was a woman dressed in black (or maybe navy blue, not like it mattered) who was signing every word that was being said.

She wasn't doing it for him... at least he didn't think she was... so maybe there was some deaf people in the audience? Or maybe they didn't know if there was or wasn't, so they wanted to make sure that they had their bases covered? And that was the first time that it occurred to him, _really_ occurred to him, that he wasn't the only deaf person in the world, and American Sign Language wasn't actually a secret language that he and Natasha shared. There were other people in the world who knew it, and used it, every single day. People who used it as their primary language, even, who could hear little or nothing and relied on it because hearing aids didn't do them any good.

He watched the woman's hands dance in the air, shaping each announcement, each speech, into a form that he could understand without question (or mostly without question – having taught himself from books and videos, largely on an as-needed basis – there were definite gaps in his vocabulary and signs he didn't recognize). For the first time since the accident, he knew just as much about what was going on and what was being said as the next person. His hand twitched against his thigh as he resisted the urge to reach out for Natasha's hand to squeeze it, because she wasn't beside him. She wasn't anywhere near him, considering his last name started with B and hers with R.

Finally they got to the part where one of the teachers that Clint didn't know started reading off a seemingly endless list of names. It didn't take that long to get to Clint, and he processed across the stage without incident, taking the folder that would later contain his diploma from Ms. Hill and shaking Mr. Fury's hand, and then going back to his seat. He heard his friends cheering, but he was focused on making sure he didn't trip on his way down the steps so he didn't look up. 

Once has safely back in his seat, he cheered for Jess and Bobbi and Natasha, and even Loki because sure, he could be an ass sometimes, but there were times when he wasn't completely horrible, and he'd been part of their group when he let himself be. He cheered for Sam, too, who seemed to be surprisingly popular despite the fact that he'd only been in the school for a year.

And then there were a few more short speeches, and then it was over and they moved the tassels on their caps from one side to the other and a few kids threw theirs even though they'd been told not to because someone might put an eye out, and they processed back out to retrieve their diplomas... and that was that.

Clint found Natasha in the crowd and wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, and kissed her softly when she tipped up her face. "That's it," he said. "We survived."

"I couldn't have done it without you," she said. "Thank you."

He kissed her again, and a second later he felt another pair of arms close around him from behind, and then they were surrounded in a group hug that just seemed to get bigger as the room was infiltrated by alumni (who weren't supposed to be in there, he was pretty sure) and a small body wormed through the group to wrap around his legs, and he laughed as the hug started to break up and scooped Sharon into his arms. "Did they make you come to this boring old thing?" he asked her.

She grinned. "I don't mind! Otherwise I would have to stay home with a babysitter and I don't like that."

Something flickered in her eyes, and she was way too young to have a look like that, and Clint squeezed her tight. "Yeah, I don't like that either," he said. 

"You're too big for a babysitter!" she giggled. 

"Try telling that to my foster parents!" he said. "Do you want to meet them?"

"Yeah!" she said, so he kept her perched on his hip even though she was maybe a little bit too big for that kind of thing (or maybe he was just an out-of-shape wimp) and went to find the Sullivans, with the rest of the group trailing behind.

When he found them in the crowd (right where they said they would be) he found himself part of another group hug, and he didn't really mind. "Who is this?" Mrs. Sullivan asked, looking at Sharon curiously.

"This is Peggy's niece, Sharon," he said. "That's Peggy there." He pointed to where she stood next to Steve, and she waved. 

"She's going to be like my mom now," Sharon said. "Because my mom doesn't want me." She said it matter-of-factly, and like it didn't bother her, and maybe she understood that she was better off with her aunt than her mother, or grandmother, or whoever she was staying with at the moment. 

Mrs. Sullivan looked at him, startled, and he shrugged one shoulder and mouthed, 'Long story.' 

"Well, I'm sure that you will be very happy living with your Aunt Peggy," Mrs. Sullivan said. 

"And Uncle Steve," Sharon said. "I'm going to live with him too, and we're going to move away from here to somewhere else far away."

"Not that far," Peggy said, coming over. "Only Boston. We'll still come back and visit sometimes."

"Do we have to?" Sharon asked, looking worried. 

"We'll talk about it." She reached for Sharon, who let herself be transferred from one set of arms to another. "We'll see you on the Fourth," Peggy said, "if not sooner. Congratulations."

"Thanks," Clint said.

"Wait," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Before you go, I'd like to get a picture of the whole group, if that's all right?"

"Oh, sure!" Peggy said. "Of course." So she stuck around for a few minutes longer while Mrs. Sullivan and everyone else's parents took pictures of everyone together, so many flashes going off that Clint wasn't sure the floaters would ever go away. He hugged her goodbye, and waved to Steve.

"Please tell your friend Peggy that if she ever needs anything, any help navigating the system or anything, to call me," Mrs. Sullivan said. "It can be tough sometimes."

"I definitely will," Clint said, and meant it, because he wanted Peggy and Sharon and Steve to have the best chance that they could. He guessed they had figured things out, and that she was going to be allowed to take her once Steve was over the age of 21 and could get approved as a foster parent himself, and it seemed like that was going to be the best thing for everyone. At least he hoped it would be.

Slowly the group dispersed, and Clint saw Jessica go off with Carol, and he wondered if they would be fighting or making up tonight, and if everything would ever be settled with them, and if it was even possible when Carol was going to be leaving soon. 

God, Jessica was going to be miserable all summer. He was glad that she mostly stuck to the kitchens at camp; he couldn't imagine her having to interact with the kids in the mood that she'd been in most of the time since Carol's announcement. 

Finally it was just him and Natasha left, and she slid into his arms again and held on tight. They clung to each other for a long moment, and then she pushed away slightly to be able to sign. _We could go anywhere,_ she said. _Do anything._

_Where do you want to go?_ , Clint asked. 

_I don't know,_ Natasha said. _I don't care, as long as it's with you._

_We'll just drive, then,_ Clint said, _And see where we end up._

He knew that wherever it was, they would turn around and come back, if not tonight then tomorrow, but that was all right. Because finally he felt like he'd found a place where he belonged. Not a physical place, not exactly, but here, with these people, wherever they went... it was the closest thing to home he'd ever had.


	43. Chapter 43

Clint's phone buzzed, and he forced himself to crack an eye open to check the screen, in case it was something important like Mrs. Sullivan trying to get in touch with him for some reason, or maybe work, even though camp didn't start until next week. He felt Natasha shift next to him as she reached for her phone, too, and they both saw the same text pop up on their screen.

THOR: Has anyone seen Loki?

Apparently he had sent the text to the whole group of them, because responses started pouring in, a cascade of 'no' and 'nope' and 'have you checked with the drama kids?' and 'is everything okay?'

THOR: I haven't seen him since after graduation last night. We all went out to dinner and after he shut himself in his room, and now he's not there anymore.

TONY: Is his laptop there?

THOR: Yes. Why?

TONY: Bring it to me.

Which turned into everyone meeting at Tony's house, which thankfully was well supplied with coffee and breakfast food, so they sat and sprawled in the living room as Tony opened the computer up and began to tap away on the keyboard. 

"Huh," he said after a minute. "It looks like he actually created a password that isn't easy to guess. A challenge." He went and got his own laptop, and Clint didn't know exactly what he was doing but there were cables involved, and probably some program that Tony had invented (or stolen from a top secret military database, who knew with him?) worked on cracking the password for him while he bit into a donut.

"You think he took off?" Carol asked, one arm clutching a mug and the other around Jessica, who had apparently decided to forgive her (at least for now) and was leaned against her, half asleep still. "Where would he go?"

"I have no idea," Thor said. "He said that he didn't want a party, so my parents didn't throw him one, and I don't know if he thought that he was going to get one anyway, even though he'd said he didn't want one, or what, but he seemed pretty upset when he got home from dinner, and he just locked himself in his room, but when I went to check on him this morning because it was almost noon and he doesn't usually sleep in that late, and I thought maybe we could go out for breakfast or something, brunch, I guess, just the two of us, I found his door unlocked and him gone, but his car is still in the garage so... I don't know."

"Maybe a friend came and picked him up," Bobbi said. "No offense, seriously, but... it doesn't seem like he really shares a lot of stuff with you, you know? And if he was just going out with a friend, why would he tell you where he's going? He's not a little kid."

"No," Thor said. "We used to get along like that. We used to be friends, but not anymore. Not since he found out that he's adopted. It was as if, finding that out, a switch got flipped, and suddenly he decided he wasn't my brother anymore. I know that he'd always felt like he was in my shadow, and I tried to draw him out, tried to point out to our parents that they had two sons, but... I was the one who could do no wrong, and he was the one who they came down on. At least it felt like that to me sometimes, and I'm sure even more to him."

"Isn't he going to camp this summer?" Bruce asked. "He'll have to come back for that, won't he?"

"That doesn't start until after the Fourth of July," Thor said. "He can't just disappear until then."

"He won't," Tony said. "I've cracked it." He waited for the computer to load everything up, and began tapping on the keys and moving the mouse around the screen (which they could all see because he'd set it up to project on the TV screen) until he found what he was looking for. "You're clever," he said, apparently speaking to Loki, "but you're not that clever."

It was a program that told them where his phone was located... and since his phone was on him (presumably) and turned on, it also told them where to find Loki. And where to find Loki was apparently somewhere in the Midwest.

"Ohio?" Steve asked. "What does he want in Ohio?"

"I'll tell you," Tony said, and began tapping away again, and they watched the screens shift one to another so quickly it was almost a blur, until finally he stopped. "There. That's what he wants in Ohio."

He'd found his parents. Loki had, without any help from them that Clint knew of, found his birth parents, and they were in Ohio and apparently Loki had gone to see them. He couldn't help wondering if Loki had bothered to ask permission to come, or if he'd decided that it would be best if he just showed up on their doorstep unannounced so they didn't have the opportunity to proactively turn him away.

He was pretty sure that it was a bad idea no matter how you went about it. Wasn't there some saying about that? Maybe it was about heroes, but the sentiment was still right – don't meet your heroes (and/or birth parents) because you'll end up being disappointed. 

On the other hand, if he had grown up always feeling out of place, wouldn't he want the chance to see if there was a place where he fit better, where he would have belonged all along? Except if they put Loki up for adoption it was probably for a reason, right? People didn't just give up babies just because. They gave them up because they knew that they didn't have the ability to raise a kid the way that it deserved to be raised, or because they just didn't want it in the first place but they also didn't want to have an abortion, or couldn't or whatever.

Or maybe he'd been taken away because his birth parents weren't fit to be parents. Maybe his mother had been a drug addict or something. And was that really something that you needed to know about yourself? That you hadn't been wanted or that your parents had been a disaster, when you had a life that was pretty damn good, even if you were too blinded by your conviction that you were being treated as second class to see it?

"I know this is probably a stupid question," Bruce said, "but have you actually tried calling him?"  
"It's not stupid," Thor said. "Yes, I tried. I called him once, and texted him a couple of times, but I don't want to get him annoyed and have him turn his phone off or something. I figured that if it came down to it and we needed to contact the police, they could try to track his phone or something, so..." He shrugged. 

"Who needs the police when you have Tony Stark?" Tony asked. 

"The police wouldn't even really listen to you until he'd been gone at least twenty-four hours, anyway," Carol said. "Since he's an adult. And even then, unless there was reason to suspect foul play, I don't think that they would do much."

"We know where he is, anyway," Tony said. "So the question now is, what are we going to do with that?"

Everyone looked at Thor, who frowned. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know what to do with that information, because like Bruce said, he's going to camp, so he'll have to come back for that. Maybe it's better to just let him do what he needs to do... but then I can't help thinking about what he might find there and how he'll react and..." He shrugged, sighed. "I wish he'd never found out he was adopted."

"I think he probably would have been better off knowing all along," Carol said. "Isn't it better for someone to know where they come from?"

"It doesn't matter," Natasha said. "We cannot change the past. Only the future. So what we are going to do?"

Again, everyone's eyes went to Thor. "I don't think all of us should do anything," he said. "I mean, that would be pretty overwhelming, right? And anyway, that's a lot of people to take on a road trip to Ohio."

"But you want to go after him," Bobbi said, "don't you?"

"Yes," Thor said. "I feel like this is a test, and if I don't go after him, I'll have failed. Even though he might hate me, I feel like I need to go."

"You shouldn't go alone," Bruce said. "You might need someone to help with the driving, or to act as navigator if you end up somewhere where you can't get a GPS signal or something like that. And just for moral support."

"Or to help you wrestle Loki into the car to force him to come home," Tony said cheerfully. "Or drive Loki's car back if you have to stuff him into your trunk to convince him to come back. Not that I can think of any reason anyone would want to stay in Ohio, ever. And he didn't take his car. But you get my point."

The trouble was, they couldn't decide who should go with him. Everyone had an argument as to why they should go, and it was strange because it wasn't like any of them were best friends with Loki, and some of them could barely stand him most of the time. Maybe it was that they cared about Thor, and wanted him to get his brother back, or maybe this was just what friends did even when their friend wasn't all that friendly. 

"I'll rent us a van," Tony said. "We'll all go. Isn't cramming way too many people into a car and driving to the middle of nowhere after graduation some kind of rite of passage? Call your mommies and daddies, kids, because we're going on a road trip."

But it wasn't as simple as just calling their parents, because they didn't know how long they were going to be gone, and they didn't know if Loki would be staying in Ohio or continuing on and if he was continuing, how far away he would get before they caught up. He already had a huge lead on them – about eight and a half hours, according to Google Maps – and if he started moving at the same time they did, he would stay that far ahead of them, at least if he kept going west. If he started heading south, they could change their route to intercept him.

"Does anyone else feel like they're in Mission: Impossible?" Bobbi asked. "It was never my life's goal to be a super spy."

"No? I always want to be a secret operative of KGB."

"I thought the KGB didn't exist anymore," Bobbi said.

"So the communists would have you believe," Natasha replied.

It was hard to tell if she was joking.

Eventually, through telling the truth or telling anything but the truth, and quick trips home to pack things for a day or two (sometimes having to sneak in to do so), and then waiting around at the rental place while Tony worked his magic with the name Stark and the rest of them hid so they didn't realize they were handing over a van to a bunch of teenagers, they were on the way... but only got as far as a grocery store, because they needed to stock up on snacks for the trip... and then they'd better fill up the gas tank because they'd gotten it with only about a quarter of a tank and they knew they would need a lot more gas than that to get where they were going. (And Tony might have lied about that, too... the whole cross state lines with no sure destination bit.)

"So which way are we going?" Steve asked, since he'd decided to take the first shift behind the wheel. 

"He doesn't seem to be going anywhere," Tony said, "so go west, young man."

They went west. They discovered that Pennsylvania was a very long, very boring state, and that they apparently thought it was okay to have highways that were only one lane wide because of construction, with a Jersey death barrier on one side and a cliff on the other. Clint was glad that he wasn't the one driving during that stretch of road.

Ohio was, if possible, even more boring than Pennsylvania. 

Finally, they hit Cleveland.

"Cleveland? Of all places, Loki is from _Cleveland_?" Tony shook his head. "I can't decide if that's hilarious or horrifying. Hilorrifying? Horlarious?"

"Pretty sure neither of those are a thing," Pepper said. "And don't get on his case about it. Don't get on his case about anything. You're only here because you're the one with the technology."

"And here I thought I was here because I'm the only one who could have gotten us our sweet ride," Tony said. "And financed this mission."

"It was your idea to come in the first place," Pepper said. "Don't—"

"Don't start," Jessica snapped. "I don't to listen to the two of you bicker like an old married couple."

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," Tony said. "From what I've heard, all you ever do is—"

"Stop!" Bruce snapped. "I already have a headache and you're not helping. You're actually starting to piss me off, and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

Clint remembered then that Bruce had been sent to juvie once for beating a kid half to death. No, they wouldn't like him when he was angry. "What do we do now?" he asked. "How precise is that GPS?"

"It can tell us the street address where he is," Tony said. "I'm just getting us directions now." A second later, a calm, soothing voice began telling them where to turn. They drove through the middle of the city and past it, through areas that were run down to areas that were even more run down, and then past all of that to what appeared to be a halfway decent suburb. Not as nice as where they lived, maybe, but not bad.

They stopped a few blocks away from the address where the GPS had led them and parked the van. "Now what?" Steve asked.

"Now I go get my brother," Thor said. 

"What if he won't—" Tony started, but he was shut down by a glare from just about anyone, and he held his hands up in surrender. "Just trying to be a realist here. He's not exactly Thor's biggest fan. Or anyone's but his own."

Thor was already out of the van, so he didn't hear Tony's commentary. They opened the sliding door to let some air in and watched as he walked down the street. He knocked on a door, but no one answered, so he moved on to the next house, and the next, until he was out of sight.

"How long do we give him?" Clint asked.

"Half an hour?" Steve suggested. "It might take him a while to convince Loki to come back with us. But half an hour seems fair, even if they end up needing longer, it gives him time to at least start the conversation and send us an update."

They agreed on half an hour, and Steve was just about to text Thor when he appeared, Loki following a few steps behind. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw all of their heads poking out of the van, and looked back the way that they'd come, but Clint guessed he decided that there was nothing to run back to, because after a second's hesitation, he kept coming.

"You didn't have to do this," he grumbled as he climbed into the van. "I would have come back. I just wanted to know."

"And?" Bobbi prompted. "What did you find out?"

"That some things aren't worth knowing," Loki said, and refused to say anything more. They didn't really press very hard, because that wasn't the kind of people that they were. Not even Tony, when it got right down to it. He could be annoying, but he didn't pry into other people's business without good reason. And there was no good reason to pour salt into Loki's wounds right now.

"So... since we're here... maybe we should do something?" Carol suggested. "Is there anything to do in Cleveland?"

"I think there's a zoo," Pepper said.

"The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame," Tony chimed in. "I'm not sure there's much else."

They took a vote and decided on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and after a few mishaps they managed to find their way there. They paid their admission, and began to wander the exhibit halls. Clint couldn't speak for anyone else, but he wasn't all that into it. It wasn't that he didn't like music – he did – but it just didn't feel like the time to be having fun, or being tourists. But Loki had gone along with it, so he could at least be a good sport about it.

After a couple of hours, though, they met up. "Let's find somewhere to eat," Thor suggested. "We can figure out our next moves then."

"Is the Hard Rock Café too cliché?" Carol asked. "It's probably overpriced, but... if we're going to be tourists, we might as well be tourists, right? Make the most of it?"

"Sure," Steve said. "Why not?"

Over dinner, Clint was quiet because the restaurant was noisy, and although Natasha tried to keep him informed on what people were saying, there was only so much that she was able to hear and keep up with, considering the fact that there were multiple conversations happening all at once. Finally they piled back into the van, this time with Thor behind the wheel, and set off back towards home. They had decided they would head back east, because what was there, really, in the Midwest?, and if they found something along the way that made them want to stop, they would. 

Clint was starting to think that everyone in the van had dozed off but him, but when Loki finally spoke, he saw people shift and straighten up a bit, listening. "I didn't even talk to them," he said. "I didn't even... I don't even know if they were actually my parents. I didn't even see a man there, only a woman, and..." He rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. Maybe they were, with the air conditioner blasting to try and keep the people all the way in the back cool. 

"Are you even sure it was your mother?" Tony asked. 

"Yes," Loki said. "Yes, I'm sure. But I don't know if she's still with my father, or with another man, and... I couldn't bring myself to ask. I got there and I saw her sitting on the front porch watching kids run around the yard and... I just froze. I didn't know what to do, or what to say, and I realized that maybe... maybe it wouldn't so either of us any good. She started a new life, has a new family. She doesn't look that old... I know from the records I found that she _wasn't_ that old when she had me... and that's probably why she gave me up. Maybe she wasn't ready. And maybe she's still not, and maybe I'm not either, even though I thought that I was, thought that I would be, thought that I needed to know. But she started over without me. I don't belong here, don't belong with her, them... any more than I belong anywhere else."

Clint expected Thor to object, to say that Loki was his brother, that he belonged in their family, but it was actually Jessica who spoke up. "Maybe," she said, "you just haven't found your place yet. Or maybe you have, and you just don't know it yet."

"Maybe," Loki said, but he still sounded doubtful.

"Isn't that what this is supposed to be all about?" she continued, and she wasn't speaking to Loki anymore, not entirely. She was speaking to all of them. "Mr. Coulson talked about how we were supposed to be leaders and all of that, but what did we ever do? Maybe that's what he thought he wanted, but I think in the end, that was never the point. The point was that none of us belonged. Not really. Some of us thought we belonged everywhere, but spread themselves so thin they didn't actually belong anywhere. Some of us resisted fitting in to anything, because they thought it would keep them safe. Some of us were just misfits from the start. Whatever it is... this is what he wanted, right? This is what he did. He gave us a place to belong, even if we're all still misfits."

Carol wrapped her arms around Jessica and held her tightly, and Clint felt Natasha's hand wrap around his and squeeze... except Natasha was on his other side, and she'd already been holding his hand... so no, it was Bobbi, and he looked at her and smiled, and she smiled back, and he passed the squeeze along to Natasha, who of course hadn't missed anything that was happening, and for a second he wasn't sure what she was going to do, how she was going to react, but her eyelids lowered for just a second, a silent acknowledgment, and then she put her head down on his shoulder. 

They didn't end up stopping on the way back, except for pee breaks and food. There wasn't much to be seen between Ohio and home, they discovered, without going way out of their way. They all tumbled out of the van when they got to Tony's, stretching and yawning, trying to work the kinks out of their necks from having slept sitting up and piled on top of each other, and the goodbyes were slow and muted.

_This is it,_ Clint thought. _This is the end._

There was still the whole summer ahead of them, and quite a few of them would be working together, but this would probably be the last time that they were all together like this, all focused on a single goal, all working toward the same end. 

And it was Loki fucking Odinson who'd brought them together to do it. Who would have thought?


	44. Chapter 44

They'd decided, as a group, that they would go to Boston for the fireworks this year. After their impromptu road trip the week before to retrieve Loki from his ill-fated mission to find and talk to his birth parents, they'd decided that maybe they could end their... whatever this was... on a better note than that. So they'd again rented a van, and piled into it at what felt like way too early on a Saturday, and headed for the city.

They arrived on the Esplanade early enough that they were able to stake out a good spot, spreading out as much as they dared considering that it wouldn't be long before the crowds started pressing in around them. For now, though, there was room to breathe, and they took advantage of it. 

"This isn't the last time that we'll be together," Steve said as they settled in for a snack. It wasn't quite lunch time, but breakfast for most of them had been hours ago, or hadn't been eaten at all, and they'd packed enough food for an army... or a dozen or so teenagers. Although Steve wasn't a teenager anymore, nor Peggy or Thor, Clint realized, and he wouldn't be either, soon enough. 

It felt strange. It felt really, really strange. 

"We'll all get together one breaks and stuff," he added. "Thanksgiving, Christmas."

"Will we, though?" Loki asked, because of course he had to be the devil's advocate. "You're actually moving to the city, right? Not just for school, during the school year, but actually getting an apartment, or buying a house? So home won't be home anymore. You'll have your own place, your own family."

"What's going on with that, anyway?" Bobbi butted in, and Clint wondered if she'd done it on purpose just to cut Loki off before he could completely ruin the day. "I know you just turned 21 today, but... do you know what's happening with the whole foster parent process?"

"We've got the paperwork in," Steve said. "They let me file it early, knowing the circumstances. They have to run background checks and all of that, but the people that we're working with, Sharon's caseworker and everyone else, have been really good about it. It helps that Peggy's mom and sister will vouch for her, and how much she's already done for Sharon, and that we've been together for a while so they see that there is stability in the relationship, and I'm not likely to just up and leave. So things are looking good."

"And they're going to let you move out of state? What about... don't they have to get some kind of permission from Sharon's father?" Bobbi asked. "

Peggy shook her head. "No," she said, "because he's not listed on her birth certificate. We know who he is, but my sister didn't put his name on the paperwork when Sharon was born, so technically he doesn't actually have any parental rights, without going through a whole lot of legal stuff to prove fatherhood, and he's been out of the picture for so long that I don't think he's going to suddenly show up and decide that all of a sudden he wants to be a father."

"We've been really up front about the fact that we want to relocate," Steve said, "and they're willing to work with us on it, and work with the state of Massachusetts, so that whatever transitions need to happen are as smooth as possible." He shrugged and reached for a handful of chips before adding, "It's only temporary, anyway. Once everything is settled, and we've got things figured out, we're going to see about adopting her."

"Will they let you do that?" Pepper asked. "I'm sure they would let Peggy, but doesn't it get more complicated for the unmarried partner to adopt the child as well?"

"I don't know," Steve said. "And, well..."

Peggy held up her left hand, showing a ring. "That won't be an issue," she said with a smile.

The group erupted in squeals and cheers, and Steve and Peggy were both hugged half to death as everyone congratulated them. "You didn't say anything!" Clint accused Steve good-naturedly. "You could have at least told us what you were planning!"

"And risk someone spilling the beans?" Steve asked. "No way!" He grinned.

"Congratulations," Clint said. 

"Thanks," Steve replied. 

"So have you set a date?" Pepper asked. "There's a lot of planning that—"

"Not yet," Peggy interrupted gently. "But believe me, if I need any help planning, I'll know where to go."

Pepper flushed, but smiled. "I'm very organized."

"I know," Peggy said. "You'll have to make sure to give me your email address before you head off to school."

"And I won't even have to boycott your wedding," Carol said. "I used to say that I wouldn't celebrate any weddings until everyone had the right to marry, but... now they do. Now _we_ do." She looked at Jessica, but Jess looked down and away, and Carol seemed to deflate a little. It had been a week now, a week and a day, since the Supreme Court had ruled that all bans on same-sex marriage were unconstitutional, making it legal for all couples, regardless of gender, to marry in all 50 states. (Of course Texas – or at least some of it - had tried to be asshats about it, but that was Texas for you, wasn't it?) 

Clint hadn't really seen Carol cry before, but she'd cried that day, because it was a day she said she'd thought she would never see, or at least not in one fell swoop. She had thought that it would be a state by state battle that took until she was old and gray to win, even though she'd grown up in a state where it had been legal for most of her life. She'd come right over to Mr. Fury's, uninvited, to celebrate, and they'd been happy for a while... but by the next morning, she'd been subdued again, and Clint didn't know what argument they'd had, but it had left both her and Jess drained.

"There are still plenty of things we need to fight for," she added, "but it's a start. It's a huge start."

They all agreed (who would dare disagree?) but still, somehow it felt like a slight damper had been put on things. Maybe it was the fact that Jessica looked like she'd been kicked. 

"What?" Carol finally asked her. "Jessica, what?"

"Nothing," Jess said. 

"It's not nothing or you wouldn't look like that," Carol replied. "Just say it."

"It just pisses me off," Jess said. 

Carol blinked. They all blinked. "It... pisses you off that now everyone has the same right to marry?" she asked, her voice slow, cautious, with just a hint of fury but mostly confusion.

"No," Jessica said. "It pisses me off that for once the old farts that run this country actually got something right, and now you're all proud to be an American and it's one less argument I have as to why they don't deserve your service, when they don't even acknowledge you as a full human being in some ways."

"Oh." Carol sighed. "I... We can't keep having this argument," she said. "I made my decision, and it's not going to change. It's what I need to do right now. For myself. It's about serving my country, yes, but mostly... mostly it's about proving something... about myself... _to_ myself. This is what I need to do."

"I hate it," Jessica said. 

"I know."

"But you're doing it anyway."

Carol nodded.

Jessica looked at her – just looked – for a long, slow moment, and then she got up and walked away. Carol pushed herself up and followed, and Clint wondered if this was the end. If this was when they finally decided that they couldn't do it anymore, that it wasn't worth it, that they could love each other all they wanted but it would never stop them from hurting each other more.

He wrapped his arm around Natasha and felt her settle against his side. A look at her face told him that she was thinking the same thing. 

"I guess that's one wedding we don't have to worry about celebrating," Tony said, and no one tried to shush him because they were pretty much all thinking it.

"Do we want to break out a game or something?" Steve asked. "We brought Apples to Apples and Cards Against Humanity."

So they played, and slowly they started to get back in the holiday spirit, although Clint knew he wasn't the only one wondering when – or if – the girls would come back. Obviously they had to come back... unless one or both of them hopped a bus back home instead. And if Jessica did that, what would Carol do? Would she be all right? He remembered the first time that they'd met her, two years ago exactly, and she'd been drunk and stumbling, yelling for Steve and finding him, only it wasn't their Steve she was looking for, but her brother. 

If things fell apart with Jessica today, would she fall back on old habits? It wouldn't be hard to get hold of alcohol, even if no one was supposed to have it out here in the open. 

But the girls came back, both of them, and if anything had been decided they gave no indication. They didn't touch each other, didn't even sit next to each other, but it was hard to tell if that meant anything. Maybe they didn't even know where they stood. Clint had no idea how they could stand to be in limbo like that, how they could deal with not knowing. Not that he knew what the future held, but he knew that Natasha was part of it, whatever happened. If they were suddenly back in the place where they'd been during the first six months that they'd known each other (had it only been six months? It felt like an eternity... but they'd met in November and she'd gotten away from her so-called uncle in early May, so that was six months) he didn't think he would be able to stand the uncertainty of it all.

Everything was shifting, everything was changing, and they were helpless to stop it. He didn't know if he would even if he could, because it wasn't all bad. Graduating wasn't bad, moving on to college, to a place of their own... those were good things. 

The group shifted, people wandering off and coming back, games starting and stopping, food being brought out and eaten and put away. At one point he found Carol sitting next to him, and when he looked at her she smiled, but there was no joy in it. "You okay?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "She didn't say she didn't want to be with me..."

"But the truth is you're not going to be together no matter what," Clint said. "Not physically."

"That would be true even if I wasn't enlisting," Carol said. "She's going off to culinary school, and I... don't have any plans. If I don't do this, I feel like I don't have a future. I feel like this is the only option I have at this point, and whether it's true or not, that's how it _feels_ and I have to trust that it will be the right decision in the end."

"Even if it means losing her?"

"If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it was meant to be. Isn't that the cliché?"

"I'm not really the one to ask about that," Clint said. "I only made the mistake of letting her go once, and it nearly meant I lost her completely."

Carol sighed. "That's different."

Clint shrugged. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. He couldn't decide that for her. "But it's definite," he said. "There's no chance that if an opportunity came up right now, a way to chance your life that didn't involve taking orders from jarheads—"

"Jarheads are Marines. I'm going into the Air Force."

"You're missing the point."

"I leave next week," Carol said. "If something came up... maybe. But nothing is going to come up," she said. "If some miracle was going to come along, don't you think it would have done it by now? Don't you think if there was another answer it would have occurred to me sometime in the past year when I've been floundering and just barely keeping afloat?"

"I guess," Clint said. "I just want you to be happy."

"I plan to be," Carol said. "And this is the path to get me there." She sounded more sure than she probably was, but she had to be, didn't she? You had to at least pretend to be sure when you were turning your life on its head. You had to commit. You couldn't do life halfway.

That's what he'd been learning for the last few years, wasn't it? That's what all of them had been learning. You couldn't just fake your way through life – not if you wanted to call it living. If things were bad, you had to find a way out. If things were good, you had to let yourself enjoy it. Otherwise life would just pass you by, leave you in its wake, and when you got the end of it (however near or far that day might be) what would you have to show for it? 

And now they were here, facing new challenges and new paths, and having to leave their nests, their safe places that they'd created, and go out into the world and figure it out all over again. And the thing was, if you'd asked him three years ago if he was ready for that, he would have said yes, absolutely, he could take care of himself. He'd been doing it his whole life, hadn't he? More or less, anyway. 

Maybe he even would have been right. Maybe he could have gone out into the world and found a place in it... but what kind of life would it have been? He would have just fallen back into old patterns, old habits, probably found another circus to join up with, maybe with Barney or maybe not, and just let life continue on as it had always been. Because it was what was familiar. It felt safe. 

It _felt_ safe, but it wasn't. He hadn't known that, even with the threat of his father flying off the handle and beating the shit out of him as a constant threat. Even with absolute poverty a nickel away more often than not, he hadn't known it, because it was just the way things were, and the way things always would be. 

Then his life had blown up, literally, and now... now he knew what safety – real safety – felt like. It was a place to live, and food to eat, and clothing to wear, and not having to worry about whether any of it would still be there the next day. It was people who had lived a little more life than he had... in years, anyway... that were willing to help, and _able_ to help if he let them. It was friends who had his back, without question and without fail. It was loving someone, and having them love you back, and having that be enough to get you through the darkest nights.

_Penny for your thoughts?_

He hadn't noticed that Carol had wandered off, and that Natasha had joined him. He guessed he'd been more lost in his head than he'd thought. The corner of his mouth quirked as she offered him a root beer. _Is that all they're worth to you?_ , he teased.

_They're not even worth a ruble,_ she replied, spelling out the last word. It took him a minute to puzzle out that she wasn't actually spelling something wrong... but he still had no idea what a ruble was. He assumed it must be some kind of currency, and he assumed it must not be worth much. But less than a penny? 

_Then why are you talking to me?_ , he asked. 

_Everyone else is busy,_ she replied. 

_Well I guess I'll have to take what I can get._

She laughed. _You looked very pensive._

_Just thinking about life, the universe, everything. How far we've come. How far we have left to go._

_Deep thoughts,_ she said. _But yes, we've come a long way._ And for a second, he could see in her eyes who she'd been, back when he'd met her, back when school was the best part of her day because life at home was a nightmare. He remembered late night calls, talking her down, keeping her calm and hoping she would sleep for a few hours, not even knowing at first what she was going through. She remembered too, and would probably never forget, but he could also see who she was now, and maybe hints of who she would become down the line. 

_What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and all that._

_What doesn't kill you doesn't kill you,_ Natasha replied. _But it leaves scars, and scars don't always make you stronger. They only remind you..._ She shook her head. _Why are we thinking about this? It's a holiday. It's Steve's birthday. We're supposed to be having fun._

_I didn't mean to rain on the parade,_ Clint said. _Just... it's going to be hard, losing this, you know?_

She nodded. _I know. It will never be the same. There will be more or us, or less, and things will shift and change and some people will probably just disappear completely at some point, by chance or by choice._ She sighed, bumped her shoulder against his. _That's life, too._

_I know. Trust me, I know all about losing people. Eventually you learn to stop holding on._

_I'm glad you held on to me,_ she said. 

_Me too._

And then the sky exploded into life, flashes of color pinwheeling through the night, and Clint stopped trying to figure out what it was all about, and just enjoyed that for now, it was.


	45. Chapter 45

Camp started on Monday, and Clint found himself looking for Lewis in the throngs of kids that showed up... but he wasn't there. He double checked the attendance list and found his name, so he was _supposed_ to be there, but there was no sign of him, or of his brother, who was also enrolled. 

"Do we know what's going on with them?" Clint asked, showing the list to Steve and pointing at their names. "They're not here."

"Let me see," Steve asked, and flipped to the last page of the list, checking the date printed in the bottom corner that verified the date of the last time the list was updated. "That's the most up-to-date list," he said. "They didn't withdraw enrollment, as far as I know. I'll check."

Clint's stomach clenched. He knew that he'd left Lewis in a better place than he had been, as far as how he was going to be handled at school, and he thought that maybe some of what they'd showed his parents might have gotten through to him, and maybe it would have improved things at home. But what if it hadn't? What if he was still being treated like he was nothing, or worse? What if his parents (or really, his father) had decided not to send him to camp just because he knew that Clint was going to be there? He wouldn't do that, would he?

"Found it," Steve said, coming back with a thin file. "They shouldn't be on the list for this week. It's right on their registration form here that they won't be here the first week. Family vacation."

"Okay," Clint said, and felt his stomach unknot. He wasn't quite sure that he believed it – they really didn't seem like family vacation people – but maybe there was a first time for everything? Maybe he'd actually done something good, like really good, for the kid, and convinced his parents that he was worth investing the time in, and part of that had been to plan a family vacation?

In the end, he might never know, unless Lewis told him when he got there next week. "I guess it's a good thing we're not actually getting the tournament started until the beginning of next week," he said. "I wouldn't want him to miss out."

Steve smiled. "Neither would I."

They had collectively decided that they would wait until the end of the first week to announce their big plan for the summer – the Triwizard Tournament (except there would be four, but Quadwizard Tournament) didn't really have the same ring to it, and there had been four in the books anyway and they hadn't changed the name) – and then get it started at the beginning of the second week. They wanted the kids to have a chance to settle in, get to know each other and the counselors, before they started throwing anything else at them.

The day flew by, and by the end of it Clint felt like he'd gone three rounds in the sparring ring with Bobbi or something. (He had absolutely no doubt that she could kick his ass, and smile while doing it.) He sank down into a chair after the last kid had left and sighed. "Are they crazier than last year?" he asked. "I feel like they're crazier than last year."

"It's just the first day," Steve said. "They're always wild on the first day. They'll settle down."

"Once we give them something to focus on, and a _reason_ to behave, they'll have more incentive to not go flying around like rogue... the word I am looking for is _not_ ping-pong balls," Bobbi said. "The game where you press the buttons and use the flippers to keep the ball from going down, and it bounces into things?"

"Pinball?" Clint suggested.

"Yes, thank you! Rogue pinballs."

"I hope not," he said. "Or I hope so. What was the question?"

"It was a statement," Bobbi said. "But here's a question – Heads of Houses."

"That's kind of statement, too," Natasha pointed out. 

"Okay, fine," Bobbi flashed a grin at her. "But there is a question hidden in the statement. We never really talked about it."

"I assumed they would be the same as last year," Steve admitted. "But I guess that leaves us with a spot to be filled." 

"Never fear, Sam Wilson is here," Sam announced, draping himself over the counter to make himself the center of attention, literally. He straightened up a second later, boosting himself up to sit on top of it instead. "What is Sam Wilson volunteering for? Does it pay well?"

"Since when does volunteer work pay?" Bobbi asked. "Isn't that kind of the definition of volunteering?"

"And why is Sam Wilson talking about Sam Wilson in the third person?" Jessica asked. She'd just joined them from the kitchens, and her shirt was soaked. She pulled it away from her skin as if she could fan it dry. 

"What happen to you?" Natasha asked.

"The sink sprayer has a mind of its own," Jessica said. "And I wasn't paying attention."

She'd been distracted all day, and Clint really couldn't blame her. On Thursday, Carol was leaving for basic training. They'd been thinking about throwing her a party, but she'd asked that they didn't. She said the gathering on the Fourth of July had been enough, and she didn't need anyone making a fuss; it would only make things harder. For a second Clint had thought that Jess would insist, for exactly that reason, but she hadn't. Apparently she had finally resigned herself to the fact that Carol was leaving... and it might be a long time before she got to come back.

Or maybe she wasn't so much resigned as she'd given up and they'd finally called it quits. 

"That still doesn't answer the question of what I'm volunteering for," Sam said.

"You're volunteering to be the head of Gryffindor House," Steve explained. "Last year it was Carol, but she's not here this year, so we need someone to step up and take her place."

"Go go Gryffindor!" Sam said. "I'm in."

Bobbi considered him for a minute, then nodded. "It works," she said. "I back it."

Clint and Natasha both nodded. Gryffindor seemed to suit him better than any other house, and even if that hadn't been the case, there was enough Gryffindor in him to make his selection has the Head of House not seem completely out of left field. 

"You've got the job," Steve said. "And no, it doesn't pay well. It doesn't pay anything beyond what you already make, and yes, it's more work, so you probably should have asked first and volunteered later." He grinned.

"I can handle it," Sam said. "So what about the other three."

"Ravenclaw," Bobbi said.

"Hufflepuff," Clint added.

Natasha just smiled.

Sam's eyebrows went up a fraction. "Slytherin. Got it. So... we're the head honchos of our houses? Does that mean we're the master zookeepers? The chief child-wranglers?"

"That's exactly what it means," Steve said. "Over the next few days you'll want to keep an eye on the kids, see who gets along with who, who can't stand who, personalities, that kind of thing. They'll also be given a little quiz to fill out, and then on Friday after camp we'll Sort them, and then have the Sorting Ceremony on Monday, first thing."

"Wow," Sam said. "You've got this all figured out."

"We did it last year," Bobbi admitted. "Just a regular House Cup competition, and of course the Quidditch Cup. This year we're doing the Triwizard Tournament."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is that at the end of the week there is going to be a big challenge that the kids compete in, but it won't be all of them. They'll each choose a champion for their house for that week – someone who exemplifies the spirit of their house, but really someone that has been well behaved. The kids get to vote, but they won't necessarily know ahead of time what the challenge is going to be – just clues like they got in the books – so they'll have to try to be a bit strategic about who they pick. Hopefully that will mean they don't always pick the same person, because someone who might excel in a physical challenge might not do so well in one that's solving a puzzle or something, you know?"

"And you've got this all worked out?" Sam asked. "All of the challenges and everything?"

"No," Bobbi admitted. "That's still a work in progress. But we've got at least until the end of the week, so... there's time."

"You've really put a lot of thought in," Sam said. "That's pretty impressive."

"What can I say?" Bobbi asked. "I'm not just another pretty face. That's Clint's job." She winked at him.

If he didn't know better, he would think that she was flirting with him, but he _did_ know better, and he knew that Bobbi knew better, so he accepted the teasing for what it was. "And I'm really good at it, too," he said, which got a laugh.

The week went by quickly – each day starting too early and feeling like it ended too late, but that was because after they'd finished work there was more work to do, and he was really questioning their sanity, taking this all on, but it would make the summer more fun for everyone, and that would make it worth it... he hoped.

On Thursday, though, they cut out pretty much as soon as the last camper had left, and it wasn't the best timing, but they didn't really have a choice. Carol needed a ride to the airport, or at least someone to retrieve her car and bring it back so that it didn't just sit in the lot there forever, getting charged god knew how much for the privilege. She'd offered to take a taxi or a van, but the idea had just been too depressing. Even if she didn't want a big deal made, she deserved to be seen off by friends.

So Clint drove, with Natasha in the passenger's seat and Carol and Jess in the back, and no one said anything. He parked the car and they all went in, even though Carol said that they didn't have to. "I can do this, guys," she said. "I'll be okay."

"We're going in," Jessica said, and the look in her eyes wasn't the kind of look that you argued with. 

Carol tried anyway. "Once I go through security—"

"We're going in," Jess repeated.

"Okay." Carol grabbed her bag from the trunk, a military-issue backpack, and watching her sling it over her shoulder made something in Clint's brain twist. It wasn't right. Carol thought this was the right choice for her, thought this was the way to get where she wanted to be, but it wasn't. It couldn't be. She wasn't military material. She was...

She was determined. She was doing this, whether any of them liked it or not.

They went in. Almost immediately, they were faced with a row of metal detectors and conveyor belts that would take Carol away to where they couldn't reach her anymore, and it might be two months before they heard from her again. She was going to Texas, but she might as well have been doing to Mars, for all that they would be likely to be able to reach her. Basic training came with strict rules, and although Clint didn't think No Contact With The Outside World was one of them, from what he'd heard and read, that was pretty much what happened. 

"So... this is it," Carol said after a moment of them all standing there looking at their feet, or the walls, or anywhere but at each other. "Thank you for driving me. I..." She frowned, unslung her backpack from one shoulder and unzipped a pocket, pulling out a keyring. She looked at it for a moment, then held it out toward Jessica. "These are for you."

"Your keys? What do I need your keys for?"

"My car," Carol said. "Your car." She reached out and took Jessica's hand, depositing them into her palm and folding her fingers around them. "You're going to need it more than I do. How are you going to get to New York without a car? How are you going to drive home for vacations, or to Boston to visit people?"

Jessica shook her head. "No. I'm not – I won't take them. It's your car."

"It's not," Carol said, pulling an envelope from the pocket. "Just finish the paperwork and it's yours. Everything is paid for. Or, well, there's a money order in there to pay for it. It's..." She looked up, blinking. "Just take it, Jess. It's the least I can do, considering."

"You're coming back," Jessica insisted. "You're coming back and you'll need it." 

"I'll get a new car if I need one," Carol said. "Or... or you'll drive me around for once." Her voice was thick behind the forced smile. 

Jess shook her head again. "Carol, I can't accept this."

"You can," Carol said. "I need you to. I need to know that... that I've done something good for you. That even though I'm leaving, you'll be... okay... or... I don't have anything else to give you. Nothing that..." She stopped, held out her hands to Jess as the words dried up or became impossible to force out. 

Jess didn't move, and Clint felt Natasha twitch at her side like she wanted to grab her foster sister and force her into Carol's arms. They didn't know where their relationship stood at this point, or at least Clint didn't, but they were friends if nothing else, and letting Carol walk away without even a hug seemed cruel.

Finally Jess gave in, and wrapped her arms around Carol, but the backpack was in the way so Carol took it off, and then they clung to each other, and Clint thought maybe one of both of them was talking, whispering into each other's ears, but he couldn't be sure. Finally they broke apart, and Carol hugged Natasha quickly, then turned to him and hugged him too. 

"Thanks for all of the times you've helped me," she said. "Thanks for being there when I couldn't ask anyone else to be."

"That's what friends are for, right?" Clint said. 

"You've been a better friend than I deserved," Carol said.

He shrugged. "Call when you can, or email. Email's better for me, probably."

"I will," Carol said. "I promise. If I don't see you before you go off to school... and with eight weeks of basic, I probably won't... good luck. You'll do awesome. I can't wait to see the place you and Natasha get."

"Thanks," he said. "You're definitely invited. Any time."

"Thanks," she echoed.

She looked at Jessica one more time, then put her backpack back on and started to walk away. Clint turned to go, knowing that he should watch in case she turned around and waved or something, but he couldn't face it. She was almost past the point of no return, and she wasn't going to change her mind. He hadn't really realized until then that he'd been hoping she would. 

But Natasha caught his arm, kept him from going a few more steps, and he turned to look at her. _Wait,_ she signed, motioning to Jess, who stood fixed in place, her eyes following Carol's progress toward the security lines, which were far too close.

Carol was just about to step into one of the roped off lanes when Jessica stepped, almost stumbled, a step forward. "Wait!"

Carol stopped, but didn't turn.

"Wait!" Jess said again, and forced her feet to work, forced herself to close the distance between where they were and where Carol was, and it put them too far away for Clint to hear what was said, and Jessica's back was pretty much directly to him so he couldn't see what she was doing, or read her lips. All he saw was Carol's eyes go wide, then wider still, and it looked like maybe Jessica was handing her something, and then Carol's arms were around her, and they were kissing, long and passionately enough that it drew the attention of bystanders, some of whom looked amused and others annoyed (but that might have been because they were in the way of the security line). 

Finally, they let go of each other, and Jessica took a step back, and Carol took a step back too, but in the opposite direction, and then she waved and turned and was gone.

Jessica watched for several minutes after Carol had disappeared from sight, and neither of them tried to make her move. How could you hurry someone through something like that? It didn't seem right. Finally she turned and looked at them, and shook her head as if to clear it. "Let's go."

So they went. They got back in the car and drove out of the parking garage. No one said anything for a long time. Clint occasionally glanced at the back seat in the rearview mirror, wanting to make sure that Jess was all right. Her eyes were red-rimmed but she didn't appear to actually be crying.

He didn't ask if she was okay. She wasn't okay, and why should she be? She'd just watch the girl she loved – and he didn't doubt she loved Carol, no matter how much they fought, or maybe _because of_ how much they fought – walk away, and she didn't know when she would next hear from her or see her, and there was a small but non-zero chance that the answer might be never, at least in the latter case, and even if she did she might not be the same, and...

Yeah. She wasn't okay.

They were almost all of the way home when Jess leaned forward. "I want a milkshake," she said. "I want to drown my sorrows in ice cream. And French fries."

"Got it," Clint said, and took the exit that would put them nearest the diner-slash-ice cream place that they'd been to a few times before. He found a space, glad that even though it was evening (and therefore dinner time) the place wasn't packed. He wasn't really feeling up to dealing with noise and crowds.

They were shown to a table, and they looked over the menus. He got a burger and fries and a milkshake, and Jessica did the same. Natasha ordered a grilled cheese. They were quiet then, because no one knew what to say, or maybe they were just lost in their own thoughts. Surprisingly, it was Jess who broke the silence.

"I'm an idiot," she said. "I swore I would never do it again, and then I did, but this time it was my choice. No one made me do it. It just... it was stupid, and I know it doesn't mean anything and it probably won't even happen, in the end, but... I did it anyway. I needed... I need her to know that she was mine. Or that I'm hers. Or... that I don't hate her, that I don't like what she's doing but I don't hate _her_ and that whatever happens... I love her. I want this to work. I love her."

Clint glanced at Natasha to see if she was following this, but she looked as confused as he was. Finally he asked, "Did what, Jess?"

"Proposed."

"Proposed?" The word sounded foreign, at least in this context, but he was probably just being dense.

"I asked her to marry me," Jessica said. "When she gets back, or... or whenever. It was stupid, and I shouldn't have, and I know it won't actually ever happen, but I asked, and she said yes, and..." She shook her head, stabbed her straw into the milkshake that had just arrived, and sucked down a mouthful so fast she winced, and shrugged, unable to finish what she was saying.

"Oh. Um. Wow."

"Congratulations," Natasha said, and if she thought it was a stupid idea, or that Jess had acted too hastily, or whatever ever she might have been thinking, she didn't let it come through in her voice or on her face. "If you want it to happen, it will happen."

"I do," Jess said. "I know we're young and dumb and forever is a long time but... after everything, I thought... I thought I would never want to be near another person – not like that – ever again. But she... she made me love her. Made me trust her. Made me... happy when I thought that happy was something that only existed for other people. So... yeah. I do. Want it to happen. Maybe it won't be now, or this year or for a long time, but... I want it. They tried to take that part of me away, but they didn't. They couldn't. They won't."

"No," Natasha agreed. "They won't."

Clint didn't know what to say, but that was pretty much par for the course at this point. Pieces of the puzzle that was Jessica were dropping into place, things he'd sort of known but not fully known, and it hurt, knowing them, knowing why she'd been so distrustful of him, and every man, when she'd first arrived. But Carol had helped that, helped her to feel safe again, helped her to open back up to people, and maybe he'd never really realized before then that he and Natasha weren't the only ones who'd had to find their way through the darkness to find each other in the light. 

"Congratulations," he said. "I don't think it's dumb at all."

Jess smiled crookedly. "What do you know? You're just a boy."

Clint shrugged. "Can't help that. And even a stopped clock is right twice a day. This feels like one of those times."

She blushed. "Thanks," she mumbled. "Now stop looking at me, both of you, and eat your damn fries."


	46. Chapter 46

"Whose idea was this again?" Jessica asked. "Because whoever it was, I'd kind of like to kill them right about now."

"Um... I'm pretty sure it was yours, actually," Bobbi said. 

Jessica made a sound that was part grumble, part growl. "Well then next time I decide that I have an idea, no matter how good an idea it seems at the time, tell me to shut up, will you?"

Bobbi laughed. "I'll try to remember that."

"'Do, or do not,'" Natasha chimed in. "'There is no try.'"

"Thanks, Yoda," Bobbi said with another laugh. "How it's going over there?" 

"I think I have only burned myself six or seven times so far," Natasha said. "So, not bad."

"How many have you done?"

"Six or seven."

She snorted. "And what about you, Clint? You're awfully quiet."

"I think I'm high," Clint said. He was only half joking. Somehow they'd decided that he was the best one for the task when it came time to spray paint what felt like an infinite number of paper cones. Maybe they thought that somehow painting had something to do with the circus? Maybe they thought that he had some kind of criminal past as a tagger. Or maybe they just didn't want to do it themselves. Whatever the case, he'd spent at least an hour and two and a half cans of spray paint getting the job done this morning, and his head still felt a little funny from the fumes. He hoped that Mr. Fury didn't freak out when he saw that part of his lawn had also been painted brown. 

"So you're doing great, then?" Bobbi teased. "What part of the assembly line do you want?"

"I thought you guys – girls – had it covered," Clint said. "I was just going to be the one checking off who had been done and putting them into the boxes."

"Fair enough," Bobbi said. "All of the cones are painted and dry, and the circles are cut out. Jessica is stuffing them, Natasha is gluing them, I'm putting the names on them, and then you're double-checking and boxing. Perfect. Let's get this rolling."

They'd decided that doing a full Sorting ceremony would take way too long, and just reading off a list of people would be too boring. Jess had been stuck at the meeting with them, even though it had nothing to do with her, just because Clint was her ride. (She had Carol's car keys, but hadn't actually gone to try and get the car from Carol's house. She thought that her family might object, and she wasn't really ready to face that yet, even though Mr. Fury had assured her that all of the paperwork was in order, and that he would go with her to stave off any trouble.) So when she'd chimed in with a way to do the Sorting quickly and efficiently, but still fun for the kids, they'd all looked at her like she'd grown a second head. 

But it really was a good idea. They would make a little paper witch's hat for each of the kids, used as place holders at the tables where they all gathered in the morning for announcements, with a paper bottom that could be torn away, and inside the hat was a bandana in one of the house colors, which would tell them where they had been Sorted. 

The trouble was, they could only find paper cones in white, and apparently pre-cut paper circles that could be used for the bottoms didn't exist, and bandanas didn't fold up as small as they'd thought they would, so it had taken more work than they'd anticipated to put the plan into action. 

"Why am I here and not Sam?" Jessica asked. "He's the Head of House, not me. I am not a Gryffindor."

"What are you?" Bobbi asked.

Jessica shrugged. "A House Elf."

"I mean for real."

"There is no for real," Jessica said. "It's fiction. Books. Movies. It's not real."

They let it drop. It was easier these days to let Jess have the last word. If they didn't, she might decide to tell them where to stick it and then they'd have to do this all themselves. They couldn't afford to lose the extra pair of hands.

"Sam had some kind of church thing," Clint said. "He tried to get out of it but he couldn't."

Jessica made a sound that was definitely more growl than grumble this time. "Convenient."

"He might stop by later."

"When we're finished, so then he can claim the credit. It's what men do when women do all of the work."

_What am I, then?_ , Clint wanted to ask, but he didn't. Once again, better not to risk pissing her off more than she already was. He wondered if this was going to be the new normal, if this was how she was going to be for the rest of the summer and beyond. He hoped not, mostly for Natasha's sake because she had to live with her. Maybe once she heard from Carol things would be better... but that might not be for days, or weeks. And it might not actually help, anyway. For all he knew, it might make it worse. 

They worked mostly in silence, until Bobbi decided she couldn't take it anymore and put her phone out on the table, streaming music that played a bit tinnily through the speakers, but was better than nothing. 

"How many campers are there, anyway?" Jessica asked. "This list just keeps going."

"Somewhere around two hundred," Bobbi said. "It's about fifty per house."

"That... is way too many," Jessica said. "We're going to be at this all day."

"Maybe we can take into living room and watch movie," Natasha suggested. "Maybe fourth movie – even though is trainwreck – to get ideas for challenges."

"That's a great idea," Bobbi said. It turned out to be more easily said than done, but eventually they got everything transferred from the kitchen table to the coffee table, and they put in the movie... and then they went back to the first one, since that was pretty much everyone's favorite anyway, and ordered in pizza, and in the end they got the job done, and had a pretty decent night before Bobbi went home. "I'll see you all bright and early on Monday," she said. 

Too early, and too bright, Clint thought as he drove to the camp on Monday morning, but he wasn't going to complain. Pretty much the worst thing that could happen around here was a rainy day. One or two wasn't bad; they could break out the board games, sit everyone down for a movie, but more than that, especially if they were in a row, and the kids started getting restless, and with that came trouble.

"Are we just putting them out randomly?" he asked. "Or are we trying to actually group them so that they're at their house tables when it's all done?"

"I don't know," Bobbi said. "What do you think?"

"I think it will be less chaotic if they're already where they need to be," he said.

"But that's no fun," Sam said, strolling in. "The first person to open theirs will give it away for everyone else. Or if not the first, then the second or third, because they'll figure out that everyone at the table is getting the same thing. Better to just have it be random, like the Sorting, and we'll just tell them they have to sit at their House table at lunchtime."

"Okay," Clint said. "Makes it easier to put them out, anyway. We don't have to double check everyone on the list to make sure they're in the right place."

They put out the hats, making some effort to group people more or less by age, since sitting some poor first grader in the middle of a group of sixth graders seemed like a bad plan, but they let it be random, otherwise. 

"Are you ready for this?" Bobbi asked, looking at the rest of them as they lined up across the front of the room. 

"Nope," Sam said, grinning. "But bring it on."

"Spoken like a true Gryffindor," Natasha said. 

The doors opened, and the kids came pouring in, voices raising in excitement as they saw the house banners. "Yessssss," Clint heard one kid hiss. "This is so awesome."

"We did it last year," another one said back. "I _told_ you."

"But you said you didn't know if they were going to do it again!"

"Everyone find your name," Sam called out, "and have a seat there. The sooner everyone is sitting down, the sooner we can begin."

It took a little while for everyone to find their seats, and Clint started thinking maybe they should have put them out alphabetically or something, but eventually everyone had a place, and Steve got up to do a few "start of term" announcements. He explained to the kids how the sorting was going to work, and that they would set up the tables by house for lunch, but for now they would stay where they were. He also explained that not everyone who had been here the previous year was going to be in the same house, because people grew and changed and maybe last year they had seemed more like a Ravenclaw but this year they'd changed and seemed more like a Hufflepuff, and that he knew in the books that once someone was in a house they couldn't change it, but they had really wanted to make sure that everyone was in the best house for who they were _right now_ , not who they were in the past or not who they might become.

(Also, they'd had to keep the houses as even in number as possible, and although for the most part they'd been able to accomplish that with careful sorting of the new kids, they'd also run into situations where there were kids who last year hadn't really known each other but this year were inseparable best friends, and if they were in their previous year's houses, they would be split up and they didn't want to create that kind of drama if they could avoid it, so they'd had to make a few changes. But Steve didn't say any of that.)

"So, without further ado, let the Sorting begin!"

A hush fell over the room as the kids tore into their paper hats, destroying hours of work in a single second, and then they exploded into noise – most cheering, a few groaning – as they saw where they'd been Sorted, and tried to figure out where their friends were to see if they would be together.

Once the hubbub died down, Steve stepped back up and explained about the Triwizard Tournament, which led to another rush of excitement that started as a whisper and built until Steve had to clap his hands until everyone quieted down again. "There will be a new challenge every week," he explained, "and there can – and should – be a new champion every week. It won't be like at Hogwarts, where there is one person selected and they have to stand for their entire House, or team, or school. No one needs that kind of pressure – this is supposed to be fun! So every week someone will be chosen. There may be some weeks, depending on the challenge, where more than one person may be chosen. We may decide to break the challenge into different age groups, for example. You won't know what the challenge is ahead of time, but you will get clues, and you will have to choose your champion accordingly. Your Head of House will also play a role in choosing the champion, so keep that in mind. If, for example, everyone votes to make one person champion, but the Head of House sees that that person has been behaving badly all week, they may opt to select the next person in line instead. So be on your best behavior, and make sure that you're always striving to live up to the best qualities of your house."

He paused, then said, "Most importantly, though, is that we want everyone to have fun. We don't want this to stress anyone out. We also don't want anyone to feel hurt or left out because they aren't chosen. There are only so many weeks in the summer, and there are a lot of you, so not everyone will get a chance to be the house champion. It's just for fun, and in the end, everyone is a winner. Also – and this is important – if you do _not_ want to be the house champion, even if you are selected by your peers, please make sure that one of us – preferably your Head of House but you can tell any of us and we'll make sure that it gets to the right person – know that. Some people don't like to be the center of attention, and we understand that, so just let us know. Now everyone make sure that you don't lose your bandana, and that you gather up your trash and put it in the barrels on your way out."

Everyone started to rise at once and make a beeline for the door, and it took a few minutes for the counselors to sort it out and dismiss them by tables to keep anyone from getting trampled. They filed out in a relatively orderly fashion, leaving the counselors behind to do a little bit of redecorating. They wanted to designate different tables for different houses – not for every day, but at least for today – and that meant making sure that they were clearly marked with the house colors. 

One camper, though, lingered behind, and Clint nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned around and found Lewis standing behind him. 

"Hey you!" he said, recovering. "What do you have there?"

Lewis proudly held up his yellow bandana, pressing it against Clint's yellow shirt. And then, slowly, he formed the sign for 'same'.

Clint grinned. "Yup," he said. "Looks like the Sorting Hat likes you. It put you in the best house of all again."

Lewis smiled, too. Clint wondered if the kids knew – the youngest ones, he meant; the older ones obviously did – that it was the counselors who decided who went where, not actually some kind of sentient hat. He wondered if Lewis in particular knew that this year Clint had chosen him, that it hadn't been something forced on him like the year before. Lewis's brother was in Gryffindor, if he remembered correctly, but they hadn't really tried to keep sibling groups together unless they'd thought that those particular kids would want it that way. 

"We're going to have fun this summer," Clint added. "Did you have fun on your vacation?"

Lewis's smile faltered slightly, and he nodded, then shook his head, then shrugged. 

"Use your words, Lewis," Clint said – and signed – gently. "It's easier for me to understand you when you use your words."

The sounds that came out of Lewis's mouth weren't really any more intelligible to Clint than they had been the year before, and he had to resist the urge not to fiddle with his hearing aid, because he knew that that wasn't actually the problem. _Okay_ , Lewis signed, and Clint assumed that that was his analysis of the vacation.

"Did you go anywhere?"

Lewis shrugged again, then signed – along with whatever he was saying – water.

"Water? Did you go to the beach?"

The little boy nodded. 

"Was it the ocean?" Clint mimed the rising and falling of the waves. "Or was it a lake?"

_Lake,_ Lewis agreed, and then a flow of words that Clint couldn't understand. He finally managed to piece together that Lewis had learned how to row a boat, and that his father had tried to teach him how to fish but then he got angry at him because he couldn't be quiet enough, and shouldn't he be good at being quiet, since he couldn't talk? (Okay, Clint might have assumed some of the details, but the expressions on Lewis's face as he spoke and mimicked his father told him a lot, and there were signs thrown in here and there that helped give him clues.)

So things obviously still weren't perfect at home, or maybe even good, but at least they seemed to be _better_ , and maybe better was all that they could hope for at this point. It had only been a few weeks, after all, since the meeting where at least Lewis's mother seemed to have been convinced that no, really, the school really was trying to look out for their son's best interest. At least Lewis didn't appear to be completely terrified of signing anymore, acting like he would be hit if he did so, and that was progress.

"You should go join the other kids," Clint said. "You're my buddy, but you'll have more fun with them than you will with me. I'm just an old guy."

"You're not _old_ ," Lewis objected, but his gap-toothed grin indicated that maybe he believed something different. 

"Your signing is getting really good," Clint said, noticing that Lewis had signed all of the words in the sentence, not just the key ones like they'd been working on. He couldn't remember teaching him the word for 'not' for example... but then maybe he had and just forgotten. 

"I go to class," Lewis said, or something very like it. "To work on talking, but she teaches me some signs, too, like you. I don't like her as much as you, though." Again, Clint figured he was probably paraphrasing, because there were gaps in the words provided in sign, so he had to guess at what was filling in the blanks. But it seemed to mean that even though it was summer, Lewis was going to some kind of speech therapy in the evenings, and the speech therapist, whoever she was, was working on keyword signing (as he'd been told it was called) with him, along with the actual speech part of things (which he had to assume was slower going, because, well... he still only caught maybe one word out of a dozen). 

"Maybe you should teach some of your friends," Clint said. "You can have your own secret language."

Lewis's face fell, and he shook his head. 

"Why not?" Clint asked.

_No friends,_ Lewis replied, not even trying to form the words.

"Maybe not yet," Clint said. "But you've only been here one day. I bet you'll have at least one friend by the end of the week. But you have to go and be with the other kids, say hi. If you need help, I'll help you."

Which was maybe not the best thing to say, because he had to worry about all of his campers, not just Lewis, but the kid needed a chance, or he was going to be miserable... and glued to Clint... the whole summer. Or worse, he would get frustrated and start acting out, running off on his own because he couldn't engage with the rest of the group. And Clint really didn't feel like having to chase him down and punish him.

_Promise?_

Clint knelt down in front of him. _I promise._

Lewis threw his arms around Clint and squeezed tight, and Clint hugged him back, just for a second. Once he let go, Lewis was off without further prompting, going to join the rest of the group. 

There had to be kids from the previous year that remembered him, Clint thought. But would they remember him as a kid who got into a lot of trouble? Not that he had, exactly... or not that Clint could blame him, given all of the frustrations in his short life, but it meant that it might be an upward battle, especially this year when there was real incentive to be on your best behavior, and so people would be less likely to want to be associated with a known troublemaker.

Clint would do what he could for him, but Lewis had to make an effort, too. He hoped, for Lewis's sake, that he would. Because living a life locked inside of yourself... well, it seemed pretty miserable, if you asked him. 

With Lewis gone, he got busy redecorating, and when they had finished he joined Natasha, glancing around to make sure that there was no one else around, or at least no one but their friends, and then put his arms around her, pulling her close.

_What was that for?_ , she asked when he let her go.

_Just... for saving me,_ he said. 

She looked at him, frowning. _I didn't save you,_ she said after a moment. _You saved me._

Clint shrugged. _If you hadn't come along, I would have left, and I don't know where I would be now. The way that I am... they might not have taken me back. And then..._ He shrugged. 

_No need to thank me,_ Natasha said. _I needed you. I didn't want to, but I did._

_I guess we made a pretty good team, even then,_ he said. 

_Did you ever have any doubt?_

He laughed. _All the time._

The corner of her mouth quirked. _Me too,_ she admitted. _But not anymore._

_No. Not anymore._

And then their attention was drawn away by the blowing of a whistle, signaling them – and everyone – that it was time to really get the day started.


	47. Chapter 47

Two weeks down, an infinite number to go, or so it felt. Clint stretched and shrugged his shoulders, trying to ease the tension in them. The truth was, there wasn't an infinite number of weeks of camp left. Five, maybe. Or six? He would have to check the calendar. The truth was that time was actually going too fast, or at least it felt like it was, and that camp was ending earlier this year than usual because so many of the members of the staff were going off to college and had to leave in mid-August (or thereabouts) for freshman orientation and all of that. It would continue for another week past the official close, with reduced attendance and reduced staff, but all of the fun and festivities would end when he left... and Natasha, and Bobbi, and Jessica, and Sam, and Steve, and...

But that wasn't his primary concern right now. His primary concern was getting home to get packed (because of course he hadn't done it the night before, or even this morning) and then over to Mr. Fury's house, so that they could head into Boston for another round of apartment hunting. Their realtor had called yesterday and said that she'd found some really good prospects, but she didn't expect them to last long, so she really needed them to come out as soon as possible and see them, and make a decision quickly. She'd wanted them to come out today during the day, but they'd told her it was impossible; they had to work and they didn't have the option of taking a day off. She hadn't liked that answer, and maybe she wasn't used to getting it from people their age, because most people their age didn't work full time, and could just change their plans at the drop of a hat. 

Mr. Fury was still insisting that he come along, and it was a little bit annoying but at this point it was also kind of reassuring. He knew more about this kind of thing than either of them did, and would have a better idea of the kind of questions that should be being asked. They still didn't really have a clue, even though they'd been through the whole thing with the realtor a few times now. It was starting to feel like maybe they were being too picky, but Mr. Fury said that it was okay for them to hold out until they found a place that they liked, at least at this point, because they still had time. In a few weeks, though, they might have to start lowering their standards.

Clint didn't even really feel like their standards were that high, and in probably half of the cases it was Mr. Fury who objected to something about a place, not them. Clint really hope that they would find something this time around, though, because he was tired of looking, and tired of feeling unsettled and like he was some kind of tramp with no place to live.

Which, he thought, was probably really ironic considering the fact that his home used to be a travel that was rarely in the same place for more than a week at a time. But things had changed, _he_ had changed, and now he was looking for a little bit of security. His home – his true home – was still Natasha, wherever she was, wherever they were together, but it would be nice to have four walls and a roof (or at least a ceiling) to call their own.

This time Jessica was coming with them, because she didn't want to stay home alone and Carol wasn't around anymore to stay with her and make sure that she didn't freak out. (And Jess wasn't really close enough friends with anyone else to stay with them, although Bobbi had offered.) Clint had been a little bit bothered at first, but really, what was the harm in it, except that it meant fitting another person into some pretty small spaces when they were looking at apartments. But maybe that was a good thing, if they ever planned to have company. If a place felt cramped with only five people in it, maybe it wasn't the right place.

"Steve had mentioned that he and Peggy were looking for a house, and that if it was big enough, we could maybe live with them," Clint told Natasha as he slid into the backseat (Jess had called shotgun but really, they'd let her). 

"Maybe," she said, "but they will have Sharon, and I think they are looking more outside city, and we don't want to have to travel so far to school if we can avoid it."

"I know," Clint said. "Just... if we don't find anything else, that's another possibility."

Natasha nodded. "If we don't find somewhere else."

He got where she was coming from. He'd kind of liked the idea of living with friends, of having a built-in support network if things went wrong, but he liked the idea of them having a place that was just their own more. He couldn't always rely on other people to look out for him; he had to learn to look out for himself... with Natasha's help, obviously, but he would be looking out for her as much as she was looking out for him, so that evened out. And after three years of living with the Sullivans, he was ready for a break from living with young kids, even if Sharon was a pretty cool kid. 

"Do you know where you're living yet?" Clint asked Jessica as the car merged into highway traffic. They were heading out early and would get a hotel for the night; Mr. Fury had decided that he would rather foot the bill for that and dinner and everything else than having to get up with (or before) the sun to get them to the city to start looking at places before 9:00 am. 

"The school has dorms," Jessica said. "I don't like it, but I'll be living there."

"You didn't want to look for somewhere of your own?" he asked.

"They don't let you," Jessica said. "Or... I guess I could have done what Natasha did and get a waiver and all of that, but it was going to be too much of a hassle and you two have each other, so you're already splitting everything in two. I would have had to get a roommate, and I wouldn't even know how to go about doing that, and maybe I would end up hating the person, and..." She shrugged. "It was just easier to say yeah, sure, fine, I'll live in your stupid student jail."

Natasha made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "You know that you will have to live with someone still, in dorms? Probably in same room, not just in same apartment."

"Nope," Jess said. "That much I fought with them over. They weren't happy about it, but I made sure that they gave me a room to myself. Sometimes the role of traumatized cult victim comes in handy." She grinned.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I guess as long as it works."

"The only person that I could ever stand to share a room with is Carol," Jessica said. "I don't want anyone else that far into my space. No offense."

"None taken," Natasha said. "I am glad that it worked out for you."

Jess shrugged. "We'll see." Which sort of implied that she wasn't sure that it actually _would_ work, but that was more or less true with every aspect of their lives for the last several years, so it wasn't like it was much of a change for any of them.

After that, the rest of the car ride was fairly quiet, except for Mr. Fury muttering and swearing under his breath about the traffic. They got to Boston and checked in to their hotel, found a nearby restaurant for dinner, and then went back to their rooms and collapsed. 

Morning came too early, and Clint really didn't want to get up. After a week of dealing with kids, the last thing that he really wanted to be doing was schlepping around the city, looking at apartments that all pretty much looked the same to him, with the same being too small, too dark, and too white. Why did everyone think that walls should be painted white? 

The first place they saw was no exception, and neither was the second.

"Okay," their realtor said. "The next place is a little bit farther out, but it's actually pretty much the same distance for traveling for both of you, and I think it's worth taking a look at."

"How far is 'a little farther out'?" Clint asked, before Mr. Fury got a chance, because he knew that the question as coming.

"I would say that it would probably be about 20 minutes via T for both of you," she said. "But the T station is only about a block away, so a quick walk even in the winter."

"Okay," he said, not sure if that was okay or not. It would just mean some extra planning, maybe, because if it's supposed to be 20 minutes, that probably meant they should allow at least 30, which would suck if either of them had an 8 am class, but weren't they used to getting up stupid early for school anyway?

"It's in a nice neighborhood," she continued, "and has more space than the places I've been showing you, but still fits in the budget that you're looking at, and heat and hot water are included, which is actually a really great deal, especially in the winter. Those are some of the advantages of looking a little farther afield. So do you want to check it out?"

"Yes," Natasha said, before Mr. Fury could say anything. "Let's look."

They piled into the car, and Clint realized again how important it would be for wherever they ended up to be T accessible, because he really had absolutely no desire to be driving around in this mess all of the time. There were way too many one way streets, and streets that connected in intersections that were at angles that never should have been allowed, and people just randomly stopping and double parking all over the place. 

It felt like they were driving much longer than 20 minutes, but then the T was more direct, usually, and (usually) didn't have traffic delays. Finally they pulled up in front of a house, and their realtor smiled and gestured. "Here it is!" she said brightly. "It's actually one floor of the building; the landlord lives on the bottom floor, and rents out the top two. The one I want to show you is actually the third floor, which is a converted attic and the smallest of the units, but I think it's plenty big enough for two people. Let's go up, shall we?"

They went up, first through a door that led to a large screened in front porch, then through a locked door that led into a little hallway, and another door that took them to the stairs that went all the way up to the top. She unlocked the door (one of two, which was weird, but she explained that this place used to be one single home that had been converted, so neither of the doors had ever actually been intended to be a front door, originally). 

"Here it is," she said, stepping into an open space that actually felt pretty big. "Now, the first thing I wanted to mention is that I know that you were looking for a two bedroom, and technically one could argue that this is only a one bedroom place, but there is this room here that does have a closet, so can be used as a bedroom, and if I was living here, it would definitely be the room that I would choose. The only thing is that one of the walls isn't really a wall." She pushed two wooden shutters into place to close off the room. "So... there's that. But if it's just the two of you living here, that should be privacy enough, I would think, and you can always put something in front of them so that they can't be opened up. Then the other bedroom is over here, and it's smaller. It would make a great guest room-office combo." 

She showed them the rest of the place, which didn't take long – the living room area, the dining area, and the kitchen were all pretty much the same space, with a little hallway that they could use for storage, and that led to the door to the back stairs, which would be good for taking the garbage down.

"And you've got your washer and dryer here, and yes, they do come with the unit. Believe me, having your own laundry facility is a big plus in the city. It means you don't have to find a laundromat, haul the laundry there – possibly on the T, depending on your transportation situation – pay to wash and dry, sit around while it's doing so, and then haul it home."

"What's the parking situation?" Mr. Fury asked. 

"There's a driveway that goes with the house. It's only a single car wide, and there's three units, so it could get a bit tricky, but there's also on-street parking, and there's enough of that that you shouldn't end up parked maybe half a block away if you use it. But if you're primarily using the T, and only using the car for when you're doing things like grocery shopping, if you end up at the back of the driveway and have to ask your neighbors to move their cars to get out once in a while, it probably shouldn't be too much of a problem."

Mr. Fury nodded, so at least he was satisfied with it. Clint wasn't so sure, but they probably _would_ be using public transportation mostly, right? Wasn't that how things worked when you lived in the city?

He didn't know. At the moment, he felt like he didn't know anything, like his head was spinning. But the thing was, he couldn't find anything actually _wrong_ with the place. Sure, it was a little bit quirky in places – like the bedroom wall that wasn't a wall, and the fact that because it was an attic space so a lot of the walls slanted in rather than being straight up and down, but that wasn't necessarily a problem; he would just have to watch his head sometimes. And there were about four different types of hardwood floor, all going in different directions and in varying shades, and there were places where it was thicker than others so there were little ridges in the floor, but they could live with that, couldn't they?

"What about walls?" Natasha asked. "They stay white, or we can paint?"

"You would have to ask the landlord," their realtor said, "but I think he would be okay with you painting, as long as it wasn't anything crazy, or as long as you painted over it when you move out."

Natasha nodded, then looked at Clint, tipping her head away from the group. He followed her a few steps away. _This one,_ she signed. _I like this one._

_I do too,_ he told her. _And I'm tired of looking._

_So... we just say yes?_

_I have no idea,_ Clint admitted. _I guess that's the first step._

_Okay._

She turned back to the realtor. "We want this place."

"Are you sure?" their realtor asked. "I did have a few more to show you."

Natasha glanced at Clint again, but he shook his head. He was done looking. This place worked, and if she thought the other places were better, wouldn't she have showed them those first, rather than dragging them all around? "No," she said. "This one."

"All right," their realtor said. "I already have all of your paperwork in order, I think, so it's just a matter of a few phone calls."

"When will we know for sure whether they got it?" Mr. Fury asked.

"Well," their realtor said, "it _is_ the weekend, so I can't make any guarantees that I'll be able to get everything settled today. But I would say Monday, or Tuesday at the absolute latest, we'll know for sure. But honestly, I think you have a very good chance. I was just told about this place – I think the previous tenant left unexpectedly – and I don't know how many other offices were notified about it. But... actually, give me a minute."

She left them stand there, and they poked around a little more while they were waiting. "The kitchen isn't great," Jessica observed, "but it's not horrible. You'll definitely need a good table to be able to do prep on, though. There's not enough counter space."

"So we get table," Natasha said. "And we get chairs and couch and everything else." 

They had nothing. Clint hadn't really thought about it before, but they really didn't have much to call their own. He was pretty sure everything that he could really say belonged to him could still be fit into a backpack and a single duffel bag... maybe two, now, with the clothing that he'd acquired over the years, or a small suitcase. But it didn't amount to more than that, and Natasha didn't have much more. They didn't even have a bed.

He didn't ask where all of the money was going to come from to cover it. Natasha would just tell him not to worry about it... and he wouldn't argue. The money he had saved up didn't amount to a whole hell of a lot, and he would need it to pay for food and other expenses once this whole moving out and living on their own thing became a reality.

A reality he realized he maybe wasn't so ready for, now that he had to look it in the eye.

Their realtor came back in, followed by a short, heavy-set man. "I hear you're thinking of moving in," he said, looking them up and down.

"Clint, Natasha, this is Mr. Edwards, the landlord, who, as I said, also lives downstairs. He happened to be home, so I thought maybe you would all like the opportunity to meet each other."

Clint offered his hand, and the landlord shook it, and then Natasha did the same, followed by Mr. Fury. Jessica pretended to be distracted by something. "We like the place," he said. "It's the best one we've seen, and I think it could feel like home."

Mr. Edwards nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. How soon do you think you'll be moving in."

"Not until the end of next month," Clint said. "Right?"

"Right," Natasha said. "We have jobs to finish. But we will pay so you hold the place for us. Deposit or whatever you need."

"Great," he said. "If you want to put a deposit down now, I'll let everyone know that the place is no longer available."

Natasha looked at Mr. Fury, who pulled out a checkbook. Clint assumed that she would be paying him back, or they had some kind of agreement, or... hell, he didn't know. At that point, he didn't really care, because it was over. They were done looking, and they had a place to live, and this was the first day of the rest of their lives, or whatever. This was the place that they would call home, together.

"You're lucky," Jessica said softly. 

"She won't be gone forever," Clint said.

"Unless she is," Jessica replied. 

Clint sighed. "That could happen to anyone," he pointed out. "Accidents happen."

"I know, but she's throwing herself headlong into all kinds of potential accidents. Or not accidents."

"Yeah," Clint said, "but this is _Carol_ we're talking about. You think anything can actually take her down?"

Jessica smiled, or at least she tried to. "Still, you're lucky."

"I know," Clint said. "Believe me, I know."

Once the check was signed, Natasha looked around. "So we can change paint if we want to?"

"Sure," Mr. Edwards said. "I don't have a lot of rules, to be honest. No raging parties that are going to get the cops called. Don't do any damage to the place, and if you do accidentally damage something, let me know – or don't let me know and just get it fixed and pay for it and everyone is happy."

"Do I get to pick out the paint for the guest room?" Jessica asked. "Because let's be honest. Who else is going to stay here?"

"Bobbi," Clint said. "If she comes up to visit."

"Fine," Jess said. "I'll ask Bobbi on Monday."

"Go ahead," Natasha said. "Our room is going to be purple."

"I guess I'll see you all again when you move in," Mr. Edwards said. "Have a great weekend." And then he went back downstairs, and the realtor shuffled them out of the house and locked back up. They climbed back into the car.

"That's it?" Clint asked, because it still didn't seem possible. "We're done?"

"Yes," Mr. Fury said. "You're done looking. Next stop, IKEA."

"Why?" Clint asked. 

"Because you're going to need places to sit and sleep, aren't you? And it's on the way home. We'll just look this time, and then we'll figure out about getting things delivered. I see a lot of driving back and forth in your future, getting the place ready."

"So much for having weekends," Clint said, but he wasn't really complaining. Not when losing his weekends meant turning an apartment into their home. From the smile on Natasha's face, he thought maybe she was thinking the same thing.


	48. Chapter 48

Although Clint wasn't dreading the zoo trip as much this year as he had been the year before, he still wasn't thrilled about it. Taking other people's kids - _a lot_ of other people's kids – out into the world and hoping that none of them got sick or hurt or lost... it was a lot of pressure. Most of the kids were well-behaved enough to be trusted, but there was always a few who decided to get out of hand, or worse, were perfectly good in the confines of the camp but as soon as they were off the bus, turned into wild animals themselves. And he really wasn't feeling up to chasing after anyone.

Lewis had been assigned to his group again, but he had expected that. If he hadn't been, Clint probably would have asked to have him switched around, because it didn't make sense to put him with someone who couldn't necessarily communicate with him effectively. (If he'd been put in Natasha's group, that would have been okay, too, since they were already planning to keep their groups together, and Natasha signed so she would have been able to understand him just as well as Clint could – if not better because if any of the words that he actually said made sense, she would be able to hear them.) 

They loaded the kids onto the busses right after attendance was taken, and Clint switched off one of his hearing aids to dampen the clamor of the kids bouncing off the metal walls of the school bus. The drive was an hour, and it was going to be a long hour with all of them talking and laughing and singing. He wondered if it was as bad for people who could hear properly, or if it was worse. At least for them the sounds could maybe be differentiated, where for him it all became one amorphous wall of sound. 

Guessing by the look on Jessica's face, he wasn't the only one suffering, though, and then he felt bad that at least he had the ability to tune some of it out. If she'd been able to, he was sure that she would have put headphones in, but they weren't allowed. She'd only just barely avoided being assigned a group of kids to keep track of herself, but at the last minute she – and Natasha and Clint, who knew how bad an idea it would be – convinced the director that no, really, someone needed to stay at the pavilion and make sure that lunch was ready when the kids came back to eat. 

They'd titled the trip Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and the kids had been given a sort of scavenger hunt that they'd made up to give them something to focus on. It wasn't required that they do it, but they had broadly hinted that the results of the scavenger hunt could play a role in who was chosen as the house champion for the week. They'd actually ended up making several different sheets, tailored to grade level, because it didn't seem fair to have the youngest kids looking for the same things that the older ones were, when their reading and life experience levels were so much lower. The older kids might be able to puzzle out a fairly complex riddle in just a few minutes, whereas the same thing might stump the younger ones completely. And it wouldn't be fair for the middle schoolers to be doing something at the level of the first graders; it would be too easy.

The counselors were allowed to help the kids a little, but they weren't supposed to give them the answers. Many of them didn't even know the answers; they hadn't seen the sheets ahead of time. Clint had, and Natasha, and Bobbi and Sam and Steve, because they'd been the ones who came up with them. But they'd all sworn that they wouldn't use their knowledge to benefit their kids... any more than they were already trying to win advantages for their houses. It wasn't a serious competition to them, but they couldn't help teasing and poking fun at each other sometimes.

Finally the busses rolled into the parking lot, and they got all of the kids off, ushering them through the gates. Each kid had a sticker slapped on their shirt, which identified what group they were in. Stars, hearts, happy faces... it had taken a while to find enough different kinds of stickers for all of the groups, but they'd wanted to make sure that there was some way to tell who was whose. They'd considered name tags for the kids, but someone had read somewhere that that could be dangerous, because it meant that a complete stranger would know the kid's name and be able to call out to them and maybe lure them away, so they'd decided against that option. They knew the kids' names anyway. The stickers were mostly so that if one of the kids got separated somehow and picked up by another group, the person who found them would know whose group they were supposed to be in. (They all had cheat sheets in their pocket that told them which counselor had what symbol.)

"Are you ready?" Clint asked his group, signing the words as well as saying them. 

"YES!" the kids said – or more like screamed, and how had they ended up with so many young ones, anyway? Their little voices cut through the air like a hot knife through butter, and it felt like they lanced straight through his eardrums.

Clint glanced at Natasha, who shrugged. "Everyone have their papers?"

Another screech of assent. It was going to be a long day if that kept up. "All right," Clint said. "Let's go."

They quickly discovered that, despite Clint's initial concern that having so many of the younger kids in their combined group, it was actually a good bunch of kids, and they were so excited about seeing anything and everything, they didn't even squabble about what they wanted to see first, or next, and no one complained that they were bored or that this was for babies. 

Clint felt a tug on his wrist, and he looked down, assuming it would be Lewis. Instead it was one of the little girls from Natasha's group. "Excuse me," she said. "Excuse me, Mr. Clint."

"What is it... Cassie?" he asked, thankful that he'd remembered her name. "Do you need the bathroom?"

She looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "No! But how do you say gorilla?"

It took him a second to realize what she was really asking. When she showed her the sign, she grinned and darted off to go show Lewis, who might already have known, but it didn't matter. He cheerfully aped – pun fully intended – the gesture, and then suddenly with every new exhibit they were asking Clint how to sign the different animals (and he was quickly looking up signs for ones he didn't know before they could ask, checking the map to see what was coming up next). 

By lunch time, all eight of the kids seemed to be the best of friends, which might not last past the end of the day, but when they found their places in the pavilions, Lewis was right at the center of the group, jabbering away but signing, too, and the others were signing back, and when they didn't understand something they looked to Clint, who translated as best he could. But mostly he left them alone, because they were figuring things out on their own. Sometimes when Lewis didn't have a sign, he didn't even bother to ask for it, he just mimed whatever it was, and the other kids understood.

Clint swiped at his eyes, and Bobbi leaned over from the next table to nudge him. "Looks like your little boy is growing up," she said. 

"Looks like," he agreed. 

"You did that, you know," Bobbi said. "You helped."

For a second, he was going to protest, but the fact of the matter was, he _had_ done this, or helped. If he hadn't started signing with Lewis the summer before, if he hadn't met him again in tutoring, if he hadn't talked to Mr. Coulson, if he hadn't fought for him at that meeting with his parents and teachers, where would he be now? Would he still be running wild like last year, melting down because no one could understand him? Probably... or maybe he would be even worse. But instead he was sitting with a group of his peers, having a conversation (almost) like any other kid. 

If he could do that just making shit up as he went along, maybe this whole college thing, this crazy idea that he could actually do something like this professionally, wasn't the worst idea he'd ever had. 

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I did."

Bobbi grinned at him, and then turned her attention back to her campers. Clint felt Natasha's hand close around his and squeeze, and he turned his over to lace their fingers together, squeezing back. He extended his index finger, pinkie, and thumb, and Natasha did the same, and they just left their hands like that for a little bit, eating one-handed (which was easier for him than for her, since he was holding her dominant hand) until he had to help with another sign. 

After lunch, they had a little over an hour to see the rest of the zoo before they had to get back on the busses. They picked back up where they'd left off, and found themselves done with time to spare. 

"Did everyone finish their sheet?" Natasha asked. 

"Yes!" the kids chorused, and Clint realized that they hadn't even asked him or Natasha about them once. They'd done it all on their own. Which maybe meant that it was too easy, or maybe meant that they had really smart kids... or maybe meant that they'd just worked together to get it done. Whatever the case, he couldn't help being impressed. 

"Is there anything that anyone wants to go back and see one more time?" Clint asked. "We have a time to maybe see two or three things, and then for the gift shop, but you all have to agree on what you want to see. So you figure it out and let us know."

The fact that they managed to do so without fighting honestly surprised Clint. What surprised him even more was that a lot of the kids seemed to be deferring to Lewis, waiting to see what he had to say, making sure that he got the opportunity to make what he wanted known. Why were kids so much more patient than adults sometimes? They weren't frustrated that Lewis couldn't communicate as clearly or easily as they could. They just found a way around it. 

Of course the exhibits they wanted to see were about as far away from their current position as possible, and they got distracted along the way, so in the end the only thing that they'd decided they wanted to see again that they actually got to see was the penguins, but no one of them seemed unhappy. 

There was one last opportunity for everything to fall apart, and that was in the gift shop. Clint and Natasha had decided to hold on to their kids' money for them, each of them putting it into an envelope with the kids' names and the amount that they'd come with, so they knew what to give them when they got to the shop. The potential problem was that kids didn't necessarily have a strong concept of money, so telling them that they had $10.00 didn't mean a lot when they really wanted the big, soft, squishy tiger that cost $50.00.

It took a while to get it sorted out, and Clint was glad that they hadn't tried to rush this part of the trip, and that they'd gotten there before other groups had, so there was less confusion trying to keep track of everyone. In the end, everyone had something, and everyone was happy. Lewis might even have been the happiest of all, because he'd had enough money to buy a little stuffed gorilla, which, he'd informed Clint, was his new favorite animal.

There was a bit of chaos when they headed back out to the busses, but the trip home was relatively uneventful. The kids were loud for the first few minutes, but after that their sugar highs wore off, and within twenty minutes half of them were asleep. Natasha reached across the aisle and took his hand, squeezing it, and Clint wasn't sure if what he was experiencing was actually déjà vu or if it was just that they'd shared moments like this so many times before that it felt like it might be. Whatever the case, it felt good to have something like that, something that would have seemed impossible three years ago... not that they'd met at this exact point three years ago, but that wasn't the point... was not only possible, but so commonplace that it could feel familiar enough to cause him to wonder if they'd done this exact same thing before.

"Gross," one of the kids in the seats behind him muttered, so he held on to Natasha's hand for just a moment longer, and she smirked to show that she understood.

When they arrived back at the camp, they fed the kids their afternoon snack (a little late) and not long after parents started to show up to take the kids home. Normally they would have had a meeting after the last kids were gone, but normally they hadn't spent the day chasing kids not only all over the camp but all over a zoo, and they were all exhausted. They decided that since nothing disastrous had happened (or at least not that Clint was made aware of) they could forego the meeting and just discuss anything important the next day.

_I should go home,_ Clint said as he dropped Natasha off. Even though Jessica had Carol's car now, and her license, she was still hesitant to drive it. Clint wasn't sure if she was just nervous about driving, or if there was something else to it, but he didn't really mind picking them up and dropping them off. Really, it was barely out of his way when he headed from his home to camp. 

_I guess,_ she replied. _Soon there won't be your home and my home anymore. Only our home._

_Then we'll really have to figure out how to be adults,_ he joked. 

_You think we don't already know that?_ , Natasha asked. _We were forced to be adults before we ever had a chance to be kids._

_I know,_ he said softly, if one could be said to say something softly in sign language. The signs were formed small, the movements gentle, and he guessed that was more or less the same thing. _I was joking. Mostly._

_Mostly?_ Her forehead furrowed. _What do you think we don't know?_

_Bills,_ Clint said. _I never lived in one place for very long. We didn't have a house where we had to worry about who to call to make sure that we had electricity and how to set up cable – if we want cable, I'm assuming we do – and internet and all of that. We'll have to pay for our own cell phones and... I don't even know what all else._

Natasha considered that for a moment. _I guess you're right,_ she admitted. _But it can't be that hard. People far stupider than we are have figured it out._

He smiled. _You're right._

_And it's not as if Mr. Fury or the Sullivans just suddenly disappear because we move out,_ she added. _We can always ask them if we need help._

Clint hadn't really thought about that aspect of things. He actually _had_ kind of thought that once he moved out of his foster home, that would be it. They would get another foster kid and move on and that would be the end of it. But he hadn't really talked to him, and now that Natasha said it, he was pretty sure they wouldn't just leave him out in the cold. If he had questions about things, he didn't think they would mind if he called them. And when they had holidays, sure, they would probably stay with Mr. Fury if they came back to visit - _would_ they come back to visit? Tony's home was still around here, even if he would be in Boston with them most of the year, and Bobbi's family was here as well, so yeah, probably they would come back at some point – but that didn't mean he couldn't stop in and say hello, did it? They would want to know how he was doing, wouldn't they? They made a big show of caring... which meant that they probably actually did, didn't it?

And there was Mr. Coulson, too. He wasn't their parent, or even their foster parent, but he'd done his best to look out for them from the moment they'd entered the school. If they had questions about how to navigate the adult world, he would try to help them, Clint was sure. 

_Sometimes I forget that,_ Clint admitted. _We'll be all right._

_I know,_ Natasha said. _Are you sure you don't want to stay?_

_I want to,_ Clint said, _but they're expecting me. I'll see you tomorrow._ He leaned in and kissed her, and for a moment he reconsidered, but no, the Sullivans were expecting him, and he had to go.

The end of the week seemed to come way too fast, and with it that week's challenge. They'd decided to keep up the Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them theme, and the challenge was basically a puzzle. They'd found a bunch of mythical creatures, and then normal, modern day ones, and the challenge was to figure out which modern creatures made up the mythical ones. In some cases there were answers that were pretty much right and wrong. In others, well, they might have to get a little creative. The goal was to get as many right as possible within a certain amount of time.

Just like the scavenger hunt sheets that they'd given the kids, they'd decided to do the challenge in age groups, picking one champion from each house for each age bracket. For the youngest kids, Clint had chosen Lewis.

He hoped that Lewis missed the grimaces and groans that came from some of the other kids when he announced his choice, but he wasn't sure that that was actually possible. The kids weren't exactly subtle. 

When it came time for the challenge, they had the youngest kids go first. Lewis looked up at him as he approached the table where the different cards were set out to begin the matching game, and he shook his head no. _Can't,_ he signed. 

_Yes you can,_ Clint said. _I know you can._

Lewis shook his head. _No one wants me to._

Clint made a mental note that if any of the ones that were most vocal about their displeasure at his choice ever got chosen by their peers as champion, he would exercise his veto power and pick someone else. Maybe it was petty, but alienating people wasn't what Hufflepuff was about, and he wouldn't stand for it. Lewis was a good kid, and a _smart_ kid, and he'd chosen him for a reason. If they didn't like that, or understand that, that was their problem, and they could at least attempt to hide it to keep Lewis from feeling bad.

_I do. Your friends do. Come on._ He nudged Lewis toward the table, and when Steve started the timer, it seemed like all of Lewis's doubt went out the window, because he flipped over the cards quickly and began matching them up. When time was called and the kids stepped back, Clint approached Lewis's place with trepidation. What if he'd been wrong? It wasn't that he cared about losing, but he cared about Lewis, and the fact that he'd actually managed to make a few friends, and what would it mean if he messed this all up?

But he hadn't. He'd done really well – better than the champions from the other Houses – and Hufflepuff got the points. Lewis's friends from the zoo hugged him and chattered at him, in words and sign, and he was grinning so hard Clint thought his cheeks might be sore by the end of the day. And it definitely _was_ petty when he glared at those who had been so loud in their doubt, but he didn't care. He'd won... and maybe he did care about winning, at least in this context. 

In the end the points for the age groups had all gone to different houses. Hufflepuff had taken the youngest, Slytherin the middle kids, and Ravenclaw the oldest. Gryffindor had gone in cocky and come away with nothing, and no one was really surprised by that... except Gryffindor. 

"Next week," Sam said, pointing a figure at them. "Next week it is _on_."

Clint wondered if he really cared, or if he was just saying it for show, or to be funny. He honestly didn't care what happened next week, or overall. He felt like he'd won the most important victory of all, and if they didn't win another thing all summer, he would still be satisfy. Because Lewis was a little bit of a hero, at least for today, and kids were smiling at him and slapping him on the back, and even if they never talked to him again (and there was a good chance a lot of them wouldn't, but maybe some would), at least for a few hours he got to feel like he was not only part of something, but at the center of it, and of vital importance.

It was going to be hard saying goodbye to him at the end of the year. Maybe he would try to keep in touch with his school social worker, just for little updates that didn't break confidentiality. She might be able to do that, right? And he came home for school breaks, maybe he could see him somehow then. 

Or maybe none of it would matter once he started his new life. Maybe he would find other things to focus on, other things to worry and care about. He didn't know. But he didn't like the idea of just disappearing from Lewis's life if he could help it, so he would try to figure something out.

For now, though, there was still the rest of the summer to get through... although when he actually looked at it, the rest of the summer wasn't all that long. Just a few more weeks, and then they had to move and get ready for orientation and the start of classes and everything suddenly seemed to be happening in fast forward. 

But he would be okay. He just had to keep telling himself that. He would be okay. They all would. And the bonds that they'd formed wouldn't just dissolve or disappear. They weren't just friends; they were family. And you were stuck with family, no matter what.


	49. Chapter 49

"Have you ever thought about how much time we've all spent riding around in cars together?" Bobbi asked. "Isn't there a movie about that?"

"I think there's a lot of movies like that," Steve said. "The road trip is a kind of American rite of passage."

"No, but it's the title or something. 'Riding In Cars'..."

"'Riding In Cars With Boys', I think," Pepper chimed in. "Drew Barrymore. I've never seen it but I remember seeing the title somewhere."

"Right," Bobbi said. "I haven't seen it either."

"I don't think it was very good," Pepper said. "I guess we could always find out."

Bobbi shrugged. "I think we would get a lot of resistance if we tried to make that a movie night movie," she said. "Anyway... my point is, it seems like we spend a lot of time packing ourselves into cars or vans together and heading off to distant places to do... stuff." 

"Take it up with Thor," Tony said, not even looking up from his tablet, where he was tapping away at god knew what, but they all hoped that it wouldn't make the car explode. "This is the second time he's had us all head out to the middle of nowhere to find Loki."

"We're not finding him this time," Thor said. "I know exactly where he is. I just thought it would be nice for us to all go and see him in one of his performances this summer, and I decided that instead of having a birthday party, which I'm sure you would all have happily attended, I wanted my birthday gift to be this trip. Is that a problem?"

"Of course it's not a problem," Bruce said. "Tony is just cranky because his latest tweaks to JARVIS haven't gone quite as well as he had hoped, and he's running on almost no sleep and his bloodstream is pure coffee and Red Bull at this point, and I keep telling him that if he just took a nap, his brain could reboot and things might all look clearer when he wakes up."

"You two sound like an old married couple sometimes," Sam said. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

"All the time," Bruce grumbled.

"I would totally marry you," Tony told Bruce, and they all watched his cheeks flush red. "But only if you're okay with me keeping Pepper as my mistress on the side."

"Hey!" Pepper said. "I will never be anyone's mistress!"

Tony looked at her, smirking. "I notice that your objection is to 'mistress', not to me. I would call this progress. What about if I married you, and kept Bruce as my mistress?"

"I am not marrying you, Tony. _Ever_."

"Never say never," Tony said. 

"I didn't say never," Pepper replied. "I said ever. And not. And yes, before you can say it, I know that that's very likely the origin of the word never – a contraction of 'not' and 'ever' but that's not the point. The point is that you keep thinking something is going to change, and nothing is ever going to change between us."

"But things already have," Tony pointed out. "You used to completely hate me. Now you mostly likely except when I'm driving you crazy."

"Which is always."

Tony shrugged. "If you say so. But I think the lady doth protest too much."

"I think you're an ass," Pepper snapped.

"We _all_ think you're an ass," Jessica added. "Because you are."

Tony looked like he was about to say something, but reconsidered when he saw Jessica's glare. She wasn't joking, or playing around. She was pissed off, and asking her why wouldn't likely end well, so no one did, but Clint wondered. Was it just that it had been a while since she'd gotten a chance to talk to Carol? Was it the fact that Tony was persisting in pursuing Pepper no matter how many times she told him no, refusing to take that as her final answer? Knowing what he did – and he was sure it still wasn't everything, but he wasn't sure that anyone would ever know _everything_ about Jessica Drew – something like that certainly _could_ piss her off. After all, she'd had her no's ignored for her entire life, to the point where she'd ended up married to man probably twice her age, and had had to run away to save her own life from being completely destroyed.

He leaned forward and put his hand on her shoulder. He felt her flinch, and she glanced back at him. Her face shifted, and he thought she was trying to give him some kind of reassuring smile, but it really looked more like a frown. He squeezed her shoulder and let go. 

"Have you and Peggy found somewhere to live yet?" he asked Steve, just to have a change of topic. 

"Yes," Steve said. "The school's housing area was able to get us hooked up with someone who helped us find a place. It's not very big, but it's in an area with good schools for Sharon, and a park nearby, and the commute for us to get to school isn't too bad. We're still working out after school care that won't break the bank, since we won't actually need it every day, depending on our class schedules."

"So you're definitely taking her?" Bobbi asked. "Sharon?"

"Yes," Steve said. "We're finalizing everything now, and after the hearing next week, we should have custody of her."

"Both of you? Not just Peggy?"

"Both of us," Steve said. "We're actually..." He paused, hesitating, then swallowed and said, "We're actually talking to her sister, asking her about severing parental rights so that we can actually adopt her. But it's a delicate subject, you know? Even though she's not the greatest mom in the world, asking her to not _be_ Sharon's mom anymore, essentially... it's difficult."

No one really knew what to say to that, and the silence quickly got awkward. "Sorry," Steve said. "That was kind of heavy. We're supposed to be having fun."

"How much longer is it?" Jessica asked. 

"A few hours," Thor said. "Not too far."

"How is a few hours not too far?" Jess countered. "Next rest area you find, can you stop? I need to stretch my legs."

"Sure thing," Thor said cheerfully, and at the next rest area they came across, he pulled off the highway and they all tumbled out to stretch and go to the bathroom and get snacks at the little convenience store. Even though they'd packed snacks for the trip, some people had decided that there was something they wanted that hadn't been thought of. 

There was some grumbling, and rearranging of seats when they got back in the van, but soon they were back underway. 

"Does he know we're coming?" Sam asked. 

"No," Thor said, grinning at him in the rearview mirror. "It's a surprise."

"Do you think he'll be happy to see us?" Sam grinned back. "I mean, I know he won't be happy to see _me_ , what with me being his archrival or archnemesis or whatever, but the rest of you?"

"Hard to say with him," Thor admitted. "I think he will be, but I don't think he'll admit it. He likes to pretend that he doesn't care about anyone or anything, but the truth is he cares a lot. Why else would finding somewhere where he feels like he belongs matter so much to him?"

"I thought that this camp was the one place where he felt like he belonged," Pepper said. "That's what he told me, anyway."

"He never said that to me," Thor said, "but then he hasn't really talked to me about anything that matters in the last few years, so maybe that has something to do with it." He grimaced and shrugged. "Hopefully he won't mind us invading his space too much, then. The performances are open to the public, so it's not like he can really get upset that we've shown up."

"But to come all this way just to have him not want to see us?" Pepper made a face. "Hopefully he'll at least be gracious about it."

"We need to stop somewhere once we get there and get him some flowers," Sam said. "No diva can resist flowers."

"And Loki is a full-tilt diva," Tony said. "I don't care what he says, he'll be happy that we came. It will show his friends – if he has any – how special he is, that his brother and all of his friends drove hours just to see him. They don't need to know that he doesn't really consider us his friends. He'll put on a show for them, make it seem like we've always been the best of friends, his adoring public."

"You didn't have to come," Thor said, sounding hurt or angry, Clint couldn't tell. "I thought you wanted to."

"I did," Tony said. "I do. Just... maybe Bruce is right. Maybe I need a little nap."

"Wait." Pepper pulled out her phone and put it on video, pointing it at Tony. "I need you to say that again, for the record."

"Say what?" Tony asked. "That I need a nap?"

"No. That Bruce was right. I want it documented for posterity that at least once in his life Tony Stark admitted that someone else was right."

Tony grabbed the phone from her and held it out, making sure that he was getting his best angle (or so Clint assumed) before repeating, "I, Tony Stark, being of not-so-sound-mind and body at the moment, do hereby solemnly proclaim that Bruce Banner may, in fact, be correct about the fact that there is a possibility that I am in need of additional sleep." He stopped the recording. "Will that do?"

Pepper laughed. "Yes, that will do. Now to post it to YouTube."

There was a scramble as Tony tried to grab the phone back from her, until Steve yelled at him to sit back down and put his seat belt on, and what had he been doing without it in the first place? Surprisingly, Tony did as he was told, although with a little bit of teasing aimed in Steve's direction about following Dad's rules. A little while later, he finally went quiet as he dozed off.

He woke up again when they stopped at a diner for food, because there was still an hour left in the trip and they were all starving. "Are you sure we're not lost?" he asked. "I mean, I really think we might be in the middle of nowhere. Is there a Nowhere? There really should be. Nowhere... I don't know, Montana, maybe?" And then he was distracted as the rest of them looked over the menu (not that they really needed to – it was a diner and they served diner food), trying to see if there was anywhere in the country that was actually named Nowhere.

If he found anything, Clint didn't hear about it, but they were at opposite ends of the long table that had been shoved together out of smaller tables to accommodate their party. Their waitress looked less than thrilled at the prospect of serving so many obviously young people; Clint was pretty sure she was thinking that they were all broke and would make a lot of demands and then leave her a shitty tip. Which was probably more often the case than not when a bunch of high school kids came in – or just out of high school, he guessed, and it was still a little weird getting used to that – but he knew that wasn't going to happen with them. Tony had money, and Steve had morals, and between the two she would get at least the standard 20%.

"What do you think we're going to see?" Bobbi asked, sipping her milkshake. "Shakespeare? Something long and boring and surreal like Waiting for Godot? A musical?"

"No idea," Clint said. "Thor didn't say, that I remember. I'm not sure even he knows. I guess they do a bunch of shows every week – or every two weeks. Like there campers are assigned to three or four different shows and then they have two weeks to put on the production. Something like that."

"Wow, that's intense," Bobbi said. "I felt like we were scrambling sometimes, and we had more than two months. _A lot_ more than two months."

"I think is likely that productions are simpler," Natasha said. "Less set, simple costumes, but maybe I am wrong. We will see."

"I guess we will," Bobbi agreed. "If we ever get there."

"We still have plenty of time," Thor said. "The shows don't start until five, and it's only an hour left to get there, and it's only three. So calm down."

"Do I seem not calm to you?" Bobbi asked. "I am completely calm. I'm just tired of sitting still." She flashed a smile at him. "I think you're the one that's worried," she added. 

"I am n—" Thor started, then shrugged. "Maybe I am," he admitted. "What if we get there and he tells us he wishes we hadn't. What if I ruin another thing for him?"

"You've never ruined anything for him," Steve said. "What Loki does, and what Loki thinks – his perception of reality – is all on him. You can't control it, and you're not responsible for it."

"Of course I'm responsible," Thor said. "I'm his older brother, even if he sometimes wants to believe that that's not the case. Family isn't just about blood."

"Things didn't get better after he went to find his biological family?" Bobbi asked. "I know he was disappointed with what he found; I thought maybe that would lead him to realizing and accepting that you and your parents really are his real family. That didn't happen?"

Thor shrugged. "Not really, no. Maybe a little, but mostly I think he just feels even more that he doesn't belong anywhere." He sighed. "I'm afraid that he's going to go off to school and make friends and form some kind of family there, and he won't ever want to come home. That he'll just disappear from our lives. I don't want to let him do that... but what if he's happier that way?"

No one really had an answer for that. Seriously, what kind of answer could there be? None of them had ever been in a situation like that, where their sibling had decided to reject their family. Jessica had rejected her entire family, but they had deserved the rejection. They had been horrible to her, and had forced her into things that she never should have been forced into, and were just generally awful. Clint... He had been the one doing the rejecting. He had been the one to choose Natasha, and his life here, over Barney. 

Did Barney ever think about him, he wondered? Did he wonder where Clint was, how he was doing? Or had he written him off as another lost cause, like they'd both written their parents off even before their deaths? 

Maybe someday he would find his brother again. Maybe they would talk, sort it all out, form some kind of bond again. But Clint wasn't about to start looking. If Barney wanted to see him, he could come looking. Clint had found something else – something better – and he wasn't going back to where he'd come from, even if it meant leaving his brother behind. Sometimes you had to make choices for yourself, even when those choices kind of sucked. 

"All right," Thor said, once they'd eaten and the bill was paid (and they'd left a generous tip, even though they hadn't been much trouble for their waitress at all, Clint thought). "Let's get back on the road."

They piled back into the van, and they continued driving, past the middle of nowhere to the outer edge of nowhere, until they finally saw the sign for Loki's camp. They followed the long and winding driveway to a parking lot. They weren't the first people there, but Clint assumed that a lot more would arrive over the next little while. 

"Should we try and find Loki?" Sam asked. "Let him know we're here?"

Thor shook his head. "I don't think so. He's probably getting ready for his show now. Let's just see where things are, make sure we don't need tickets or anything, find good seats... whatever we have to do." He fidgeted with the wrapping on the flowers they'd bought at a little stand along the way. 

They found someone who looked like they were in charge, or at least had some idea what was going, and they were told that no, they didn't need tickets, that all seating was first come, first served, and that the doors opened half an hour before showtime for each show. They were also given a schedule of what was showing when, and included in the program was the names of the campers in each production.

" _Beautiful Thing_?" Thor asked, looking at the program. "I've never even heard of it."

None of them had, it turned out, which meant that after they'd wandered a bit and watched one of the other productions to have something to do (it was mostly younger campers and it was mostly a mess, they decided, but they clapped politely anyway before quietly leaving when they couldn't take it any longer). They went to the auditorium – actually an outdoor amphitheater – and found seats to watch Loki's show, front and center because Thor insisted. 

"Actually," Clint said, leaning forward to stick his head between Thor and Steve, "do you mind if we go sit over there?" He pointed to one side of the stage, where he saw two chairs sitting in front of the stage. One of them was occupied by a woman dressed in dark clothing, and a glance at the program told him that his hunch was right – she was a sign language interpreter, and the other chair was probably for a second one, and if he could actually _understand_ the show instead of just _seeing_ it, wouldn't that be a good thing? 

Thor looked over and frowned slightly. "I would rather be right in the middle," he said. "Not that I want to distract Loki, but I want him to see me when he does his curtain call, at least."

"You don't mind if I go over there, do you?" Clint asked. For some reason he was hesitant to explain why, which he knew was stupid and that his friends would be all for it if he just said something, but it had become a habit over the years not to admit that things weren't as easy for him as they were for other people, that he was, in fact, disabled, and that sometimes he had to do things differently.

In this case, the world (or at least the camp) had seen fit to offer him an accommodation, and why not take advantage of it? (Okay, it wasn't specifically for him; how could it be when they'd only just decided they were coming and they didn't even know until they go here which show they would be seeing? Not like graduation, where he was sure having the interpreter there was for his benefit.)

"I guess we don't all have to sit together," Thor said. "If you would rather be over there, go ahead. We can meet up again after the show."

So Clint got up, and Natasha followed, as did Bobbi and Jessica. He sat in the front row so that nothing would get in his way of being able to see the interpreters, and when they glanced over, he smiled crookedly.

"Almost boys versus girls," Bobbi joked. "Any particular reason you wanted to come over here?"

Clint pointed to the women sitting in front of the stage. "I'm going to listen with my eyes," he said. "Then you won't have to explain it all to me after so I don't sound like an idiot in front of Loki."

"Who care what he thinks?" Jessica asked. 

"I don't care what he thinks. I just don't feel like having to deal with him being an asshole because I missed some crucial point in the play and don't get a reference or something."

"Yeah, okay," Jessica grumbled. 

It felt like forever before the show started, but of course it couldn't have been more than about 25 minutes. As soon as it did, Clint was glad that he had decided to move, because apparently the play was set in London or something, and if he didn't have the interpreters to watch, he would have had absolutely no clue what anyone was saying or what was going on. Not that their accents were bad – it seemed like everyone else must understand them well enough, since none of the girls were frowning in confusion, but adding that on top of the fact that his ability to recognize speech without the visual cue of the lips that were kind of too far away, and the actors weren't directly facing him most of the time, he would have had absolutely no clue.

The play was about a boy who fell in love with another boy, in a place and time where that wasn't so acceptable, and the stuff that they went through, and it ended happily, or at least happyily-ish, and Loki was very good as the boy whose father was an abusive asshole. They met him after the show when the cast came out, and he looked stunned as Thor wrapped him in an enormous hug.

"We came to see you," Thor said. "We brought flowers."

"I can see that," Loki said. For a second, he looked like he wasn't sure what to say, or like he wanted to say something scathing, but finally he just said, "Thank you."

"Are you hungry?" Thor asked. "We could go out for ice cream after."

"I..." Loki hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. We'll go out for ice cream. I just need to finish saying hello to people, and then get out of my costume."

"It just looks like clothing," Jess pointed out. "No one would notice."

"Probably not," Loki agreed, "but it's hot under the lights, especially when it's already hot out to begin with, and they would probably prefer it if I didn't show up soaked in sweat and stinking up the place."

"I know _we_ would appreciate it," Pepper teased. "We'll just wait here."

Loki didn't leave them waiting for long, and Clint was surprised when he actually seemed not to mind spending time in their company. As they were heading for the van to go find a place to get ice cream (Tony was looking it up on his phone, which he assured him would make sure to find the absolute _best_ place to go) he even introduced them to some of his friends. Maybe it was meant as a birthday present of sorts or something, but he even introduced Thor as his brother.

Once they'd found a place, and had gotten their cones and dishes and sundaes, they settled around some of the picnic tables outside. "You were amazing," Pepper told him. "I was just... blown away. Seriously. I'm sure that people have told you over and over again that going into acting is not a good career choice, that it's not stable, all of that... and of course I'm not expert, but I really think you could do it. I really think you have a chance."

"Thanks," Loki said, and Clint thought for a second he might almost actually be blushing, but it was probably just a trick of the light. "I'm certainly going to try."

"You'll do it," Thor said. "You can do anything that you put your mind to."

"Thanks," Loki said again, and this time Clint was sure that it _wasn't_ a trick of the light after all. 

They stayed a little while longer, and then it was time for Loki to get back to camp before their curfew, and for them to head back home. It was going to be late – or really early, actually – when they got home, but as they settled back into their seats, Clint was pretty sure that most, if not all of them, thought that it was worth it.


	50. Chapter 50

_I don't want to do this._

Natasha's eyes caught his in the mirror; she'd seen him signing even with her back turned. (Mirrors were handy that way.) _You don't have a choice,_ she replied. _It's the last day._

_I could call in sick,_ Clint said. _I feel a little nauseous._

She turned around to give him a scathing look. _Steve would kill you, for one, and for another, your campers would be disappointed. And what if you win the championship? Your house, I mean. If you're not there, who is going to accept the award?_

_One of my campers,_ Clint said. _It's really for them, anyway. I don't care who wins._

_Of course not,_ Natasha said, the corners of her lips quirking. _Typical Hufflepuff. 'It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.'_ She paused, then added, _As long as you win._

_Typical Slytherin,_ he teased back. _Maybe you'll win this year._

_As long as it's not Gryffindor,_ she said. _Anyone but Gryffindor._

_Isn't it funny how that is the house that we're all meant to think is the best house because of the books, but so many people just really want them to not win anything, ever?_

_Because they win everything in the books,_ Natasha said. _And it's only because of Harry. It's not like we ever hear about any of the rest of them doing anything, and some of the shit that they get away with..._ She shook her head. _Anyway, I don't want Sam to just step in for one year and suddenly take it all._

Clint smiled. _His head would get so big he wouldn't be able to fit through doors._

Which wasn't actually the case, or probably wouldn't be, but he might gloat just a little... or a lot. Clint secretly hoped that it would be Slytherin who won, just because he thought that Natasha and her campers deserved it, and because they were always the underdogs, the villains (although luckily there hadn't been too much of that going on at camp) and they never really got to have anything nice. If Bobbi and the Ravenclaws won, that would be all right, too.

_Just get dressed,_ Natasha said. _We have to do this._

He sighed. She was right, of course. They had to do this. It was the last day of camp, and the winner of the Triwizard Tournament was going to be announced, and he had to be there for it. That wasn't the part he minded. The problem was that it was the last day of camp, and he would be leaving to go to college... shit, next week... and he might never see these people – these kids – again. Which was okay... mostly. Except for Lewis. 

He remembered what had happened when he'd told Lewis that he wasn't going to be tutoring anymore. He remembered the meltdown that the little boy had had at the possibility that he wasn't going to see him again. Now he was going to have to tell him that this might be goodbye forever. Sure, there was a chance that he would come back the next year to be a counselor again, but there was also a chance that he wouldn't. Maybe something better would come up. Maybe he would take classes over the summer. He really didn't know... but when he thought about it, it was unlikely that he would be back, because this time next year, he would have nowhere to live for the summer. Unless they found another apartment, or unless Mr. Fury let them stay at his place, once he moved out of the Sullivans', that was it. He was done, and there was nowhere for him to come back to.

Which was something they really hadn't talked about. He was barely ever home, and he got the feeling that this bothered his foster mother more than she let on, but he was busy with camp and wanting to spend time with friends before they all headed off, and she understood that (she said she did, anyway), but it didn't meant that there weren't things that needed to be arranged and taken care of at home. 

Still, he assumed once he moved out and his room was empty, the space would be taken up by another foster kid, some kid who had been deemed 'special needs' and who could benefit from the time and attention and structure that the Sullivans could give him that Clint had fought against for so long before they'd all come to an understanding.

It was the last day of camp, and the first day of goodbyes, and it was going to be a long week of letting everyone go and promising to keep in touch and hopefully actually doing it. 

The drive to camp seemed too short, and as Clint parked his car and they got out (Jess heading for the kitchens, Natasha remaining at his side) he looked around and thought about the possibility that he would never see this place again. Would he miss it? Maybe. They'd had a lot of fun here. They'd had some great ideas (and some not-so-great ones) and they'd made things fun not only for the kids but for themselves in the process, and it felt good to be part of something that had, in the end, been kind of epic. He wondered if the tradition would be carried on in the future... and sort of suspected that it wouldn't, unless another group of brilliant teenagers came in with big ideas and the drive to see them through. 

"It's weird, huh?" Bobbi said, falling into step beside him and nudging him with her elbow. "Last day... probably forever."

"Yeah," Clint said. "I'm not looking forward to it."

"It'll be okay," Bobbi said. 

"Yeah," Clint said again, but he really wasn't sure. He really, really wasn't sure, and the last thing he needed was for Lewis to lose it and flip out and run off or something, and for his father to see that (again) and decide that everything that they'd done, everything that he'd helped Lewis with over the course of the summer, and that was supposed to continue into the school year with the support of his social worker and speech therapist and everyone else, had been stupid and pointless and not worth it. 

He had no idea if something like that was likely – maybe the kid's father had finally seen the light, or maybe, if they were lucky, his mom would be the one to pick him up – but there was certainly a non-zero chance, and it left a pit of dread in his stomach as he sat down to take attendance as the kids started to arrive.

Lewis beamed and waved as he came in, pointing to his name on the list. 

"I know who you are," Clint said, smiling at him. "I see you have your yellow on. Do you think we're going to win this year?"

Lewis nodded enthusiastically, but then he got distracted by someone calling his name, and he waved to Clint again and headed off to join his friends, and the fact that he _had_ friends made Clint hope that maybe things wouldn't be so bad later, when it was time to say goodbye.

The day seemed to go super slowly, and too fast all at once. It felt like they had barely finished taking attendance when it was suddenly lunch time, and lunch had only just been cleaned up when suddenly they were back in the cafeteria (which was decked out in house colors again) getting ready to give out the awards.

They'd been giving out little awards to the winning champion (or champions) each week, and they'd decided to give out a few more now, recognizing various campers who they felt had made some kind of extra contribution to the whole thing. And then, of course, was the big announcement – the winner of the Triwizard Tournament.

Steve got up and held up his hands for quiet, and it was kind of amazing how a guy who, when all was said and done, wasn't that big, could command the attention of so many kids without doing much of anything. The roar of their voices dimmed to a few stray whispers.

"And now the moment we've all been waiting for," he said. "When I pull on this cord, the winner of the Triwizard Tournament, who managed to win out over the other houses by just a few points, will be revealed. Can I have a drumroll, please?"

The kids tapped on the tables with their hands, and the soft thunder built until Steve held up his hands again, and then pulled on the cord and a banner dropped down. "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Clint stood, stunned, as his campers erupted into wild cheers and swarmed out of their seats to hug each other, and him, and their friends in other houses, and anyone they can get their hands on. Clint accepted the (cheap, plastic) trophy from Steve and held it up. 

How had they won? He hadn't been paying attention to the points, really, but how had they won? For the second year in a row, even. He looked over at Natasha, and although she smiled, he could see a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Bobbi shook her fist at him, but she was trying not to laugh, and Sam just winked. 

"All right, everyone back in your seats!" Steve called. "It's time for one last feast to celebrate the amazing summer that we've had."

The kitchen crew, headed by Jessica, came out with trays to deliver to each of the tables, and there was pumpkin pasties and cauldron cakes and as many of the treats from the books as they could figure out how to create. 

The kids went wild, and Clint couldn't really blame them. Jess and her crew had really outdone themselves. (Clint knew for a fact that she had been obsessing over it for weeks, and had started baking some of the treats at home several days ago. He'd made the mistake of taking one, and after pronouncing it delicious, he'd been threatened with penalty of death if he touched another. He assumed that if he'd said that it needed work, he either would have been dead immediately, or she would have scrapped the whole batch, and waited on the threats until he'd had a satisfactory taste test result.) 

The afternoon flew by, and before Clint knew it parents started to arrive to pick up their kids. He watched them go, saying his goodbyes, and dreading the moment that he knew would have to come. Finally, Lewis bounced up to him, a little blonde ball of energy, and waved. "My mom," he said and signed. "My mom."

"Hi," Clint said, looking at the woman who had only met a few times previously. "It's nice to see you again." 

She took his extended hand and shook it, holding on for a minute too long, until it started to feel just a little bit awkward, but Clint got the impression that she was trying to gather herself, to find the words to say whatever it was she needed to say. If it had been Lewis's father, he would have been worried, but his mother seemed more reasonable. 

"I just wanted to say thank you," she finally said. "Thank you for everything that you've done for Lewis, last year and this year at camp, and during the school year. He's... he's really growing by leaps and bounds, and now that he's getting the help that he needs, his language skills are really developing. And he has _friends_ , which he never really did before, and that's thanks to you. So... thank you." 

The last two words she signed as she said them, and Clint felt his eyes prick as tears formed. "It's nothing," he said, signing as well. "I just... I needed to be able to communicate with him. Or really, I needed for him to be able to communicate with me, and... it just made sense to me. I'm glad that he's getting support now, though. I'm glad that he's making friends. It su—stinks being all alone."

"It's not nothing," she said. "It's everything. Everything that I wanted to do but didn't know how. Everything that, deep down, I knew he needed, but I didn't know how to fight for him to get it, and my husband... Well, he's the sort of guy who thinks anyone can do anything if they just pick themselves up by their bootstraps and try a little harder. And sometimes you just get tired of fighting, you know? So I let myself believe him when I knew that I shouldn't that if we just gave it time, Lewis would figure it out on his own. But that wasn't happening, and then you came along, and I think he started to see that he was wrong, that Lewis needed extra support, that he had 'special needs', but that that wasn't a reflection on him as a man, or on us as parents. It just meant that our child needed a little extra support to reach the potential that we know that he has. He thought 'special needs' basically meant that your child was, well, retarded, and he would be put in a room with kids who would never be able to fully function for themselves in the world, and neither of us wanted that. We wanted him to have every chance, and we knew that his best hope for that was being with other kids. But learning by example – that's what we thought would happen, that he would just hear all of the other kids talking and figure it out – didn't work. And he – Lewis – would get so frustrated because he would want to talk to us, want to tell us things, and we didn't understand, and after a while he just got so quiet, so withdrawn, because he knew that there was no point in trying because we would probably never understand. And we would get so frustrated – me too, not just my husband – because we _wanted_ to understand, and we just _couldn't_. Then he came home with these signs that he'd learned, but we didn't understand that either, and..." She sighed, shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to ramble at you. I just wanted to say thank you. You have made a world of difference, whether you know it or not."

"You're welcome," Clint said, and he wondered if his voice sounded as strangled to her as it did to him as he pushed the words out around the lump in his throat. "I just did what felt right."

"You have very good instincts," she replied. "His speech therapist calls what you were doing with him keyword signing, and she said that that was a strategy that they often used with kids with problems like Lewis."

"That's cool," Clint said, because he didn't know what else to say.

"Mom," Lewis signed. "You talk too much!"

"Don't interrupt, honey," she said to him. "Will you be back next year?"

"I don't know," Clint admitted, his voice dropping low, like somehow he could keep Lewis from hearing even though he was standing right there. "I'm going away to college this year, and moving to Boston, so... I'm pretty much just trying to get through that before I think too much about next summer."

"I understand." She smiled at him, and her face – which in rest looked slightly haggard – brightened, making her look years younger. "What are you going for?"

"I don't know," Clint admitted. "But... maybe something like speech therapy, or... I mean I don't know if I can do that with my hearing, but if not that, maybe something like it. Maybe I can work with kids like Lewis, help them." He shrugged. "Or maybe I'll decide on something totally different."

"Whatever you do, I'm sure you'll be great at it," she said with another smile, then looked down at Lewis. "Okay, honey. Time to say goodbye."

"Bye!" Lewis said cheerfully, waving.

Clint almost let it go at that. He wondered if he should. But if Lewis thought that it was just a normal weekend, and that he would see Clint again on Monday, would he feel betrayed when he discovered that that wasn't the case? "Can I get a hug?" he asked. 

Lewis beamed and launched himself at Clint, wrapping his arms around his legs. Clint managed to pry him away so that he could crouch down to his level, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing. "Don't tell anyone," he whispered, "but you were always my favorite camper."

The little boy giggled. "I won't tell," he said, and Clint even mostly understood the words, and not just the finger over the lips gesture that Lewis made. 

"I want you to be extra good and work extra hard this year, okay?" Clint asked. "And I want you to remember that even though sometimes it's a little harder for you, there are people who want to talk to you and want to be your friend. Okay?"

"Okay," Lewis said. "Danesha is in my class next year!" 

"Is she?" Clint asked, knowing that Danesha was one of the little girls from their group at the zoo, who had wanted to learn all of the signs for the animals to be able to talk to Lewis about them. "That's awesome!"

"Yeah! She's my best friend, even though she's a girl."

Clint grinned. "My best friend is a girl, too," he said.

"Miss Natasha," Lewis said. "I know."

"Yup," Clint agreed. "So you're going to work extra hard, right? And you're going to be good for your teachers and for your mom and dad?"

"Okay," Lewis agreed. "Will you be my tutor again?"

"I can't be," Clint said. "I'm going away to college so I won't see you. But... I'll try to come back for breaks sometimes, and maybe I can see you then, okay?"

Lewis frowned, his smile falling. "Okay," he said, much more subdued, and this time when he hugged Clint, it was like he didn't want to let go. But eventually he did, and took his mom's hand, and Clint handed her his phone number, and said that maybe sometimes he could Facetime with Lewis or something, or Skype. She said that she would see what she could do.

And that was it. He watched Lewis walk away with his mom and his brother, and he didn't know when or if he would ever see him again. But he would be okay, he decided. The kid would be all right.

He felt arms slide around him from behind, and he laced his fingers through Natasha's where they closed around his waist, squeezing them gently. After a minute he turned around to be able to see her face, and she was looking at him, her expression serious. _Are you okay?_ , she asked. 

_I'm okay._ And he was. Was he sad? Yes, of course, absolutely. Was he worried about what the future would bring for Lewis? Yes to that, too. But he couldn't control it. He couldn't change it. The most he could do at this point was hope for the best, and maybe send emails or video messages from time to time, just to see how he was doing.

And he could decide what he wanted to do with his life, if working with kids like Lewis was it, and if it was, he could make sure that he was the best at it that he could be, so that no kid had to suffer through being unable to communicate like Lewis had for so many years. 

_There's going to be a lot of that,_ Natasha said, _over the next few days._

_I know,_ Clint said. _But there will be the holidays and everything. And Steve and Peggy and Bruce and Tony will all be in Boston with us, so maybe we'll see them sometimes. And we'll make new friends._

_Not like the ones we have now,_ Natasha said. 

_No,_ Clint agreed. _Probably not._ But they couldn't cling to the past, only do their best to not let the good parts of it slip away. And he was sure that they could, with a little bit of effort. He knew that Bobbi would email him, and that if she wasn't too busy she would come visit, and they could visit her, too. And whether either of them really wanted to admit it or not, Natasha and Jessica were sisters, and they would keep in touch with each other. And eventually – soon, even – Carol would be out of boot camp and able to communicate with the outside world again. 

Things changed, but that didn't have to be a bad thing. It could be good, if they wanted it to be, if they let it. 

"Come on," Steve called, from somewhere off to the side of them. "Everyone gather up one last time."

They went to join the group, and Clint tried to listen to whatever Steve was saying, but he only caught one word out ten, it felt like, and finally he gave up. It was some kind of pep talk, and he was sure it was inspiring, but what really mattered was the group hug that ensued at the end. Natasha was one side of him, and Bobbi on the other, and their arms around him made him feel like no matter where he went, he would always have a place in the world.

And maybe that was a false sense of belonging; he didn't know, and only time would tell. But for now, he chose to believe that it was true, and maybe by believing it he could make it so. 

"Ice cream?" Bobbi said after. 

"Definitely ice cream," Jessica agreed. So they piled into Clint's car and held on to the moment for just a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, friends, for the late posting! I literally forgot about it until I was already at work. Oops!


	51. Chapter 51

"Are you serious?" Bobbi asked, looking at the suitcase, duffel bag, and backpack that sat on the floor beside Clint's bed. "That's _it_?"

Clint looked, too, and couldn't figure out what she was walking about. He'd been shocked by how much clothing he'd acquired over the last few years; he'd practically had to sit on the suitcase (a gift from the Sullivans) to close it. "What do you mean?"

"That's everything you own in the world? Seriously?" She looked around the room, at the cleared off night table and the small desk that he'd mostly used for putting the laptop on while he and Natasha watched movies, at the bookshelves that held a few books but not many, and shook her head. "It's like you never even lived her. It's like _no one_ ever lived here. I thought..." She shook her head again, laughed. "I thought I would come over, help you get everything together for the big move tomorrow. But I guess you've already got that covered."

"I guess so," Clint said. He didn't know how to explain to her that he hadn't ever bothered to acquire much because he'd never known when he might need to just pick up and take off. Even after he'd accepted that he wasn't going to be running away with the circus again any time soon, when all of the shit had been doing down with Natasha, there had been a chance that the only way for her to get away would be a disappear, and he'd been prepared to go with her if that happened. 

"I guess you're going to pack your laptop tomorrow?" Bobbi asked, since it was the last thing that was still out. 

"No," Clint said. "That stays."

She frowned. "Um... you're probably going to need it for school," she said. "It will be a major pain in the butt if you have to go to a computer lab all the time. Unless you and Natasha are planning to share a laptop, but that would be a pain, too, if you both have things that you need to be working on at the same time."

"I have the tablet Tony made me," Clint said. "I can use that."

"It doesn't have a keyboard."

"I can get one that plugs in or whatever. I don't see why you're stressing about this," Clint said. 

"Because it doesn't make sense," Bobbi said. "It's pretty much the most important thing that you need for college, and you're just leaving it."

"It's not mine," Clint said. "The Sullivans – my foster—"

"I know who the Sullivans are," Bobbi said. 

"Right. They gave it to me not long after I got here, but I'm pretty sure it was just as a loan while I was here. I don't think they were actually _giving_ it to me."

"Did you ask them?" Bobbi asked. 

"No," Clint admitted. "What am I going to do? 'Hey, can I take that really expensive thing you lent me and never return it?'"

"You're assuming that it was a loan," Bobbi said. "Maybe they meant it as a gift."

"They barely knew me then," Clint said. "I wasn't planning to stick around."

"Did they know that?" Bobbi countered. "Just... ask them. Why make your life more difficult than it needs to be?"

"Fine," Clint said, because he knew that arguing with her was about as pointless as arguing with Natasha... or Jessica, or Carol, or pretty much any of the girls that he knew, when he really thought about it. "I'll ask."

"Good." Bobbi looked around again. "God, this is super depressing," she said. "I guess I never really thought about it, what it would be like to live somewhere that isn't necessarily your home, where you're not sure you're actually going to get to stay. Even when I was in the hospital, I personalized it, just so that I could stand to be there. Although I used to get annoyed by the flowers and balloons sent by people who pretended to care but couldn't actually be bothered to come see me, even when I was out of the ICU and they could." She sighed. "Please tell me that you're planning to actually decorate in your new place. If not, I'll have to come and do it for you."

"The walls are already painted," Clint said. "It looks really nice."

"What color is my room?" Bobbi asked. "For when I visit?"

"Blue," Clint said. "That's what you and Jess decided on, right? That's what she told us." 

"We never talked about it," Bobbi laughed, "but I like blue."

"Good," Clint said. "I don't think we have bedding and stuff for it yet, so don't come too soon."

"Do you have _anything_ for the place?" Bobbi asked. "Like beds? A table? A couch?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "I mean, I don't know if we have it _yet_ but it's coming." He tried not to think about the amount of money that had been put on Mr. Fury's credit card at IKEA when they'd ordered their furniture. 

"You're moving _tomorrow_!" Bobbi said. "Where are you going to sleep if your bed hasn't been delivered yet?"

Clint shrugged. "We'll figure it out."

She rolled her eyes. "You'll have to let me know how that works out for you," she said, then her expression went more serious. "I mean it. You have to promise me that you'll keep in touch."

"I will," Clint said. "We will. I promise."

"Good." Bobbi crossed her arms. "Are you worried about how it's going to go?"

"Not really," Clint said. "Why? Are you?"

"Yes," Bobbi said. "I'm _really_ worried about you and your furniture-less apartment."

"I mean about you," Clint said. "Are you worried about you?"

"Of course not," Bobbi said. "Why would I be worried? Just because my mother is looking at me like I might break at any second again, and I'm moving hours away from home where I don't know anyone, and I'll be living with a complete stranger who might be awesome or might be a serial killer, and starting a really intense program that some stupidly high percentage of people wash out of all while still taking medication to make sure that my body doesn't turn against single most critical organ for sustaining life? Nah, I'm not worried."

Clint held out his arms, and she practically crashed into him, squeezing him hard. "You'll be okay," he told her. "You have my number, and we can Skype. You can practice your ASL on me."

She said something in response, but it got muffled against his shoulder. He assumed that it was probably something along the lines of 'thank you'.

After she left, he went downstairs, where he found both Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan in the kitchen, working on dinner together. It was rare, but Mr. Sullivan was on vacation this week, helping her get the kids ready for school, which was starting for them soon, too. "Hey, I, uh, have a question for you," he said. "About my – uh, the laptop you g—lent me?"

"What is it?" Mr. Sullivan asked, looking up from the carrots he was chopping for salad. "Is something wrong with it?"

"No," Clint said. "It's fine. I just... uh... wasn't sure..."

Now they were both looking at him, and he cursed Bobbi for making him promise to ask. He was sure that she would know, somehow, if he broke the promise. "Wasn't sure about what?" Mr. Sullivan pressed.

"Wasn't sure if it was, well, mine?"

Mrs. Sullivan frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't follow."

"You gave it to me when I got here, or not long after, but... I guess... did you _give_ it to me? Or was it just for while I'm here? I mean, it's fine either way. I understand if you want to give it to Kevin or something, now that I'm leaving. I have a table that Tony made for me so I—"

"Of _course_ it's yours," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Did you think we were going to ask for it back?"

Clint scrubbed his hand over the hair at the back of his neck. "Kinda?"

"Maybe if you'd only ended up staying a few weeks or a few months," she said. "But no. It's your laptop. Of course you have to take it with you. You'll need it for writing papers and things. I hear that a lot of students actually type their notes during lectures right into their laptops now; they don't even use notebooks. Which is great, as long as you can avoid getting distracted by the internet while you're doing it." She smiled.

"Was that all?" Mr. Sullivan asked. "Your phone is yours, too, if you were wondering that," he added. "And we'll keep you on the family plan for at least your first semester."

"You don't need to do that," Clint said. "I can afford—"

"You don't know what kind of expenses you're going to have," Mrs. Sullivan said. "This is the least that we can do for you while you're getting settled."

"But you won't—"

She looked at him, and her eyes were hard and soft at the same time. "You are our son. It took us a while to get there together, but you are our son, and we will take care of you, whether or not the state is paying for us to do so. Even if another child comes and takes your room, you will still always have a home here."

"Um. Okay," Clint said, because it was all that he could manage to say around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, so big it put pressure on his ears and made them ache.

"This is new for us, too," Mr. Sullivan said. "You're the first foster kid that we've had that we've actually gotten to this point with. All of the others have been transitioned into other living situations for one reason or another before they got to the point of graduating and moving out on their own. So you'll have to forgive us if we don't quite know how to do it."

"I'm not sure any parent goes," Mrs. Sullivan said. "We just... you can always call us if you need anything. No matter what time of day or night, no matter how silly it seems, if you need something, you can call us."

"Okay," Clint said. "I, uh, gotta go finish packing."

"All right," Mrs. Sullivan said. "You go finish up."

He didn't, of course, and he was pretty sure that she knew that, but she was willing to give him the out to spare them the maudlin moment. He appreciated what they were saying, and maybe somewhere down the line he would take them up on it. But he didn't know how to respond in the moment... although he probably should have said thank you. That probably should have been in there somewhere, at the very least.

Later. Or tomorrow. 

He didn't sleep well that night. Maybe it was because Natasha wasn't beside him, or maybe it was because he knew that this was his last night here, or maybe he was just nervous about what tomorrow would bring. Whatever the case, he tossed and turned and was up and ready to go hours before Natasha and Mr. Fury were expecting him. He would be driving his car to Boston (and he assumed Natasha would be riding with him) and Mr. Fury would be going as well to help them move what little they were bringing, and just to make sure that everything was straightened out and set up as it should be when they arrived. He'd been doing a lot of back and forth to Boston, handling things while they were working, which they'd been extremely grateful for. He said that there were some advantages to working in the school system – summer vacation was one of them. 

He took his stuff downstairs, trying not to let the suitcase bump around too much and wake up the younger boys. He didn't want to leave his foster parents to deal with them being cranky all day because he'd disrupted their routine... although his departure would probably do that. Or maybe not. He'd been around less and less lately, so maybe it would take a day or two for it to really sink in that he wasn't coming back. He guessed he probably wouldn't ever actually find out, and that was a weird feeling.

His foster parents were already up, and Mrs. Sullivan was making breakfast. "I hope you like pancakes," she said. "I realized I didn't actually know what kind of special thing to make you, because we haven't really had an occasion."

"Pancakes are fine," he said. "They're great."

"Okay." 

Time crawled, and then suddenly the time between when he'd gotten up and when he had planned to leave was gone all at once. He loaded his bags into his car, and then turned to face his foster parents. "So... I guess this is where I say goodbye," he said. "And thank you. You... I never... My family before was... kind of f—kind of a mess," he said. "As you know. And I was kind of a mess when I got here. And maybe I'm still kind of a mess now, but... not any more than any other kid going off into the world not knowing what to expect, I don't think. And that's thanks to you. And to other people, but a lot of it is to you, for putting up with me and for letting me stay even when I probably made you not want to, and for always being there and being... stable. I didn't get a lot of that before. So thank you. For doing that for a kid who was pissed off at the world and everyone in it, and who didn't think he needed help. Thank you for helping me anyway."

They didn't say anything. They just hugged him, and held on for a long time, and when they let go they were all wiping their eyes.

"Call us any time," Mrs. Sullivan repeated. "I mean it. And call us when you get there so we know you got there safe!"

"I will," Clint said. "I promise."

The drive to Mr. Fury's house seemed longer than normal, and when he got there they were already loading Natasha's stuff into Mr. Fury's car. Jessica watched from the porch, refusing to help. She'd also decided not to come along, and Clint got that. Let her process whatever she needed to process on her own while everyone else was gone. He knew that they would see her again, and talk to her, so when they said goodbye it wasn't really, it was just see you later, with later being an indeterminate time in the future rather than that night or the next day. So there was no scene, no grand goodbye. She just waved to him as he arrived, and waved again when they left, and then disappeared into the house.

_Is she okay?_ , Clint asked, watching Natasha out of the corner of his eye for her response.

She shrugged. _She will be. She's nervous about moving. We have each other, and Tony and Bruce and Steve and Peggy will all be in Boston, too. She's going off on her own, and that's hard. She's never been on her own before. Ever._

_You told her she could come visit any time, right?_ , Clint asked.

_Of course. She said she'll probably be too busy most of the time._

_Maybe,_ Clint said, _but at least the offer is out there. I told Bobbi the same thing._

_Good,_ Natasha said, and then they were quiet for most of the rest of the trip, because it was hard for him to focus on traffic on the highway and her hands at the same time.

Luckily there weren't any major delays, because as it was they pulled into the driveway only a couple of minutes before the truck arrived with their furniture. It took a bit of finagling for the delivery people to get some of it up the narrow stairs, but they managed it, and soon they had a couch and armchair and table and chairs and beds in both of the rooms. Other furniture – their coffee table, TV stand, dressers, desks and a few sets of shelves – had to be assembled, but Mr. Fury had paid the extra to have the IKEA people do that as well, and soon their empty space started to look like a home.

_Their_ home.

Clint reached for Natasha's hand and squeezed it, and she squeezed back hard, then turned to more practical things, like hanging up her clothing in the closet and putting the non-hanging stuff in the newly assembled drawers. He followed her lead, and discovered that at some point one of his foster parents had slipped a card into one of his bags.

He opened it, and inside was a gift card that could be used anywhere in an amount that he knew that they wouldn't easily afford. In the card they'd written, "Consider this your birthday and Christmas gifts for all of the years that we missed at the beginning of your life. Use it to build your new home, or just to do something fun. We're here any time you need us." And it was signed with 'Love', and he didn't think that they'd ever used that word before, but seeing it there, in indelible ink, he believed it.

He picked up his phone, because of course he'd forgotten to call and tell them that he'd arrived, and was glad when the answering machine picked up. "We got here safe," he said, "and I got your gift. Thank you. Again. For everything."

The money came in handy, because it turned out that they'd forgotten – or at least hadn't prioritized, maybe Natasha had had it in her mind all long – things like dishes and towels and sheets and all of that. It was nice for him to be able to look at the (somewhat heart-stoppingly large) total on the register and say, "I've got this one." 

By the time Mr. Fury left that night, the place didn't look anything like what Clint had expected to be his first home on his own. Of course he'd honestly expected it to be some kind of trailer, as part of the circus or maybe just in the middle of nowhere. He would never have thought he would have an apartment in the city - _any_ city. And he especially never thought that he would be sharing that apartment with the most beautiful woman in the world, who he loved and who, for some stupid crazy reason, loved him back.

_This is our home,_ she signed to him. _We're safe here._

_Yes,_ he signed back, taking his hearing aids out and setting them aside, because he never needed to wear them here if he didn't want to. _We're safe here._

_And alone,_ she said, _together._

He wasn't stupid. He took the hint. The bedroom door closed and locked behind them, but he realized then that it didn't actually have to, and so he unlocked it, and left it open a crack, just because he could. Natasha raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged, and she smiled, and then there was nothing but her for a long, long time, and that, more than anything, reassured him that yes, this was home.


	52. Chapter 52

Clint was halfway down the stairs when he felt the clatter of someone else behind him. It could only be Natasha, because they lived on the top floor, and she was the only other person in the apartment. He turned to look, and she frowned at him and held out her hand.

He held out his own hand in return, not sure what she wanted, and felt her drop something into his palm. His hearing aids. He'd forgotten them. Which maybe should have surprised him, but didn't really. They'd barely left the house yesterday, just taking the time to get settled in, and he hadn't even bothered with them. The apartment wasn't so big that they couldn't find each other within a minute if they were looking, so there was no need for them. If Natasha needed him (and he wasn't already at her side) she could just find him and sign whatever needed to be said. Although they'd been talking almost constantly, the apartment, he imagined, had seemed very quiet... or at least devoid of voices. They'd had to put some nails in the walls to hang up a white board to be able to leave messages for each other, and some curtain rods, and they'd rearranged some furniture, so it wasn't completely quiet.

_Thanks,_ he signed, having the good grace to look sheepish. 

_You're welcome,_ she answered. _Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?_

_I don't think you're allowed,_ Clint said. _Students only._

_Other freshman will have their parents with them, won't they?_

Clint grimaced. _You're not my parent._

_No, but I can help you if you need it._

_I'll be fine,_ Clint told her. _I promise._

She studied him for a minute longer, then nodded. Still, she made her way down the last few steps to join him on the small landing, stopping one step above to equalize their heights. _Text me if you need anything,_ she said. _Promise._

_I promise,_ he repeated, and kissed her, and it was a good thing he'd left early because now he would only just be on time.

He tapped his CharlieCard against the reader – Mr. Fury had made sure that they had them, and that they'd done what was necessary to get the discounted rate for students for the monthly pass so they could use it as much as they needed – and went down into the subway. He started to tuck his hearing aids into his pocket, but then realized he would probably want to be able to hear the stations being announced so he put them in, inwardly groaning at the sudden onslaught of noise. 

The ride wasn't that long, but it felt like it took an eternity, and when he hit the ground level again he was disoriented. It took a minute to figure out which direction he ought to be heading to get to where he needed to be, but finally he saw a sign and just walked toward it, realizing that maybe he should have had Natasha come along after all. _Her_ orientation didn't start until tomorrow, because both of their schools did things by last name and his started with B and hers with R. 

He wandered aimlessly until he was accosted by a girl in a highlighter-colored shirt emblazoned with the school logo on the front, and Orientation Leader on the back. "Hi!" she said. "Can I help you?"

"Maybe," he said. "I'm here for orientation?"

"Great!" She beamed at him. "Have you already moved into your dorm?"

"No," he said. "I mean, I don't live in the dorms. I live off campus."

Her smile faltered for a second. "Oh," she said, then rallied. "Well, awesome! I hope that you've been settling in well. Unless you're from the area?"

"No," he said. "We just moved in. But we're settling in okay."

"You have roommates?" she asked. 

"My girlfriend. She goes to another school. We found a place in between."

"Wow," the girl said. "Well, I'm Kim, and I can definitely help you get started." She looked around, as if she was searching for someone else to fob him off on, and when she didn't find anyone, she just smiled brightly at him again. "I'll show you where you can get your student ID, and make sure that you don't have any holds on your account for financial aid, make sure your schedule is in order, all of that. Then I would recommend going over to the lounge they've set up for off-campus students, because they should have your main orientation packet with the schedule and everything else. Right this way!"

He followed her because he didn't know what else to do, and she stuck him in a line and showed him how it all just followed from one station to another, and then left him with a map with the off-campus student lounge circled on it, and went to go find some other lost freshman to assist. 

Clint moved from table to table, noticing that he seemed to be the only one who was doing all of this himself. Everyone else had at least one parent with them, it seemed like, and was it weird that he was looking at all of the other freshman and thinking of them as children? But he _was_ older than them – some of them were probably barely 18, or maybe not even, and he would be turning 20 next month – and he felt he could be pretty confident in saying that he had a hell of a lot more life experience than most of them. 

Finally, he made his way to the lounge on his map (he only got a little bit lost doing it) and was once again approached by a relentlessly cheerful person in a neon shirt. This time it was a boy (or at least Clint was pretty sure they were a boy) who introduced himself as Milo.

"Hello," he said. "How can I help you?"

"I guess I'm supposed to come here for my orientation packet?"

"Sure," Milo said. "What's your name?"

"Clint Barton?"

"Just a minute." Milo went to a box stuffed full of folders and flipped through, coming back a minute later with one with Clint's name on it. "Here you go. Feel free to grab some food, have a seat, look it over. Let me know if you have any questions or if there's anything that I can help you out with."

"Thanks," Clint said. He took a few cookies and a bottle of water and sank down into a chair to flip through. There were maps, and a schedule of events for the upcoming days, and a special note requesting that he visit the Disability Services Office. 

He sighed when he saw it. He'd fought with pretty much everyone about whether he should tell the school that he was deaf, until Natasha had pointed out to him that he'd written about it in his essay, so obviously they already knew, and Bobbi told him that he would be 'an idiot' not to take advantage of whatever help they could offer him. 

"I'm not looking for help," he'd told her. "I don't know need people thinking that I can't do it on my own."

She'd finally convinced him by pointing out that asking for certain accommodations wasn't giving him any kind of unfair advantage over the other students; it was just leveling the playing field. They could all listen to lectures and take notes and everything, and it was easy for them (well, most of them, but those it wasn't easy for could contact the DSO for accommodations, too), but for him it was harder. Did he really want to take a chance on falling behind right away because he couldn't hear what was going on? He'd managed to make it through high school that way, but this wasn't high school.

He took another cookie and headed out to find the office. They hadn't said to come at any particular time, so he figured now was as good a time as any... and if it turned out that it wasn't, well, he figured he was pretty much done for the day anyway so he could just head home.

He found the building, and rode the elevator up to the floor where it said the office was, and when he got there he pushed open the door. A woman at the front desk looked up at him. "Can I help you?"

"Uh... yeah," Clint said. "I guess so. I got a note to come in?"

"What's your name?"

"Clint Barton?" He got a feeling that he would be answering that question a lot, and he wondered how long it would take before he stopped answering it so that it sounded like a question in return.

"Just a second," she said, and tapped away at her computer. "Yup, here you are. Just have a seat for a few minutes and I'll have someone come talk to you, okay?"

"Sure," Clint said, and felt a knot forming in his stomach. Was there some kind of problem? Had they changed their minds? But he'd been able to get his ID and his financial aid was all in place and his schedule was set, so it couldn't be that, could it?

He wasn't left to wonder along. Another woman came out and motioned for him to follow him deeper into the labyrinth of cubicles. She offered him a seat. "Hi, Clint," she said. "My name is Dina, and I'll be your main contact in this office for anything that you need. Which, I guess I should probably ask, do you need an interpreter right now?"

"No," Clint said. "I'm okay. It's quiet here so I can hear you. Just, y'know... try not to look all over the place while you're talking?" He rubbed at the back of his head, feeling awkward actually asking for what he needed in order to be able to best understand people, but she'd asked, hadn't she? This was what she _did_ so she had to understand, right?

"Sure," she said, smiling. "I just wanted to have you come in just to review everything with you, make sure that we've got all of our bases covered as far as classes go, but mainly I wanted to make sure that you had the support you needed during orientation, because I know that it can be chaotic and sometimes things – and people – get lost in the shuffle. So I wanted to go over the orientation schedule with you, figure out the things that you absolutely need to do, and then the things that you want to do, so that we can make sure to have an interpreter there at those events for you."

Clint blinked. "Just for me?"

"Well... yes," she said. "You're our only deaf student, currently, so... yes."

"Oh," Clint said. "I mean, I can get along pretty well without any of that. I—"

"No no no," Dina said. "This is what we _do_. You are entitled to this, and it's not a problem at all, so please, don't feel like a bother."

It wasn't that he felt like a bother, exactly (although that was maybe part of it) but more that he felt like he was being singled out, and that he would stick out with someone following him around to act as a go-between when he was dealing with normal – hearing – people. "I got through high school okay without anyone," he said. 

"I understand," Dina replied, "but we're here to do everything we can to make sure that you don't just 'get through okay'. We want you to thrive here, just like every other student. I promise, it won't be as awkward as you think it will be, especially with you doing so well with your hearing aids and reading lips. The interpreter will mostly be there to do major announcements, anything that's being said to the whole group. If there are smaller group activities, if you ask they can pretty much leave you to it. They don't mind – it's all about what _you_ need to be successful."

"Okay," Clint said, and they spent the next half an hour or so going over everything for orientation and for his classes. The only class that he wouldn't have an interpreter in was ASL 1, because, well, obviously one wouldn't be needed there. He'd asked about seeing about testing out of the beginner class, considering that he already knew how to sign, and they said he could discuss it with his instructor on the first day. 

When he finally left, he decided that he'd had enough for the day. There was only so much he could take in, only so much struggling to communicate that he was willing to do. Maybe it was a good thing that they were getting him an interpreter; even if it would make him feel singled out and conspicuous (things you didn't want to be when you were a carnie, except when you were performing) at least knowing what was going on around him wouldn't be a constant struggle. In high school he'd known what to suspect, and for all the shit that had happened in those three years, he'd actually been fairly sheltered from the world. He just hadn't realized it until he was fully out in it and expected to make it on his own.

He got back on the T and headed home, twisting the lock in the apartment door, glad that Natasha had locked it behind him but also worried that it meant she'd gone out. His car was still in the driveway (he'd told her she was welcome to drive it any time she needed), but she could have taken the T. But as soon as he stepped inside he knew that that wasn't the case. The place smelled amazing, and he told her so.

She turned around and smiled at him. "Thank you," she said. "Jessica got me a cookbook for graduation. I thought I would try it out." She probably would have signed, but she had one hand in an oven mitt, and it was quiet enough that he could understand her pretty well anyway. And when her lips pressed to his, well, there was no translation necessary.

"How long before it's done?" he asked.

"Maybe..." she glanced over at the timer, "ten minutes? Fifteen?"

"Okay." He held out his arms, and was relieved when she slipped into them, letting him hug her and hugging him in return, their bodies leaning into each other, and it felt good. It felt perfect, and he felt his nerves, which were frayed from being hyper-alert all day, begin to calm. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair, and let himself get lost in the moment.

They finally had to break apart when Natasha's timer beeped, and she went to finish up dinner while he set their little table (big enough to seat six if they squeezed, but they only had four chairs) with the new dishes that they'd bought. Red, like most of the things in their kitchen, because Natasha had decided that that was the right color for a kitchen to be. Their room was all purples and grays, just like they'd talked about when he was dreaming a future for them to calm her down and put her to sleep. It felt just as right as it had when he'd been imagining it. 

They sat down across from each other, just because it was easier to talk that way, and dug into their food, which tasted just as good as it smelled. Natasha had even taken a page out of Jessica's book... or out of her memories of watching a million episodes of Top Chef with Jess... and made it all look pretty on the plate. 

_How was your day?_ , she asked while they chewed. _Did everything go okay?_

He nodded. _Pretty much. I got my ID, made sure everything was cleared through financial aid, that I'm registered for classes, got my orientation packet which tells me all of the stuff that I'm expected to pretend to care about for the next week, and then went to the Office of Disability Services to talk to my... advisor, I guess? They got an interpreter for me for classes and everything, so maybe I'll be able to keep up better than I ever did in high school._

Natasha nodded. _That's good,_ she said. _I'm glad. I don't want it to be harder than it needs to be for you._

He smiled. _Yeah. I guess I'm just so used to things being hard that I never actually realized that it was possible for them to not be... or at least that there are ways to make things easier. Or... I guess maybe I've finally realized that this is a thing,_ he pointed to his ear, and it's not going away, and pretending that it's not a thing isn't going to help anything or anyone, especially me, and maybe I've just got to... I dunno... embrace it, I guess.

_Do you ever think about just not using your hearing aids?_ , Natasha asked, then picked up a roll and tore it in half, buttering it before taking a bite.

_All the time,_ Clint said. _I haven't been wearing them here. In the house, I mean._

_I know,_ Natasha said. _But all the time._

_I've thought about it,_ Clint said. _Sometimes when things are too noisy I'll turn them off just to not have to deal with it, but then I start to get a little freaked out because what if I miss hearing something important? What if I'm walking and I start to cross the street or something and I don't hear a car coming and for some reason I didn't see it? Things like that._

Natasha nodded. _I understand._ He figured she probably did. She knew what it was like to be afraid of the things that might rise up out of nowhere and blindside you.

_And I still like to hear the sound of your voice sometimes,_ Clint admitted, and he told himself that the flush in his cheeks was just because the bite he'd just taken was too hot, even though he knew it was a lie. 

_I like to hear your voice too,_ Natasha said, and reached across the table to squeeze his hand. _You could always just put them in for that._

He laughed. _Maybe. We'll see._

The next day they got up early, because Natasha had to be to her school by 9:00 am, and she wasn't sure how bad the rush hour traffic on the T would be, and he knew she would rather be early than late, because it gave her more of an opportunity to look around, get the lay of the land... and probably plan possible escape routes if necessary. Not that he blamed her. She'd encountered too many things in her life that really were out to get her to not be at least a little bit paranoid.

_Do you want me to go with you? ___, he asked, meaning it mostly as a joke, so he was surprised when she actually hesitated for a second, _more_ than a second, before shaking her head. 

_I'll be all right,_ she told him. 

_Do you want me to meet you after? I know we need to be careful with our money, but... just as a treat for surviving the move and the first days of orientation, I thought maybe we could go somewhere to get something to eat._

_I would like that,_ Natasha said. _I'll text you when I'm done._

_Okay. We'll figure out where to meet then._ He had a few things that he was expected to go to that day, including a department meeting for the department that he would possibly be pursuing a major with, where lunch would be provided. There was another thing about campus employment, which was definitely something that he needed to pursue, because he wasn't going to live off of the money that Natasha had been given as part of the settlement for what had happened to her. It felt weird enough that that was what was paying for their place to live, but maybe that fell into the category of the best revenge being living well or however that saying went. 

He met his interpreter – or one of them, apparently he might have a different one in some classes, depending on scheduling, because she wasn't actually a staff member for the school, and his classes were only about 15 hours a week, so if she got an all-day job working for someone else some days, she wasn't going to pass it up just to come deal with him for an hour and a half one day – at the meeting. She introduced herself as Julie, and told him that she was very happy to meet him and work with him.

Having her there turned out to be an amazing boon. She was trained to just sort of fade into the background for everyone else, but for him, it meant that he actually knew what was going on, even when they were in a big group with people asking questions from seats that were behind him, so that there was no way that he would be able to see their lips, even if he'd been able to figure out where they were in the crowd. By the time the employment meeting was over, he was really glad that he'd filled out the application for disability services, because he was a lot less freaked out about how hard college was going to be.

_Where did you learn to sign?_ , she asked as they were leaving the meeting.

_We – I taught myself,_ Clint said. _Independent study in high school, from books and videos and stuff._ He shrugged. They'd already discussed that he'd been deafened later in life, and that with his hearing aids he could hear moderately well, which explained, according to Julie, his strong oral skills. He'd tried not to snicker, and she'd given him a little bit of a dirty look.

_We?_ , she asked.

_Me and my girlfriend,_ he said. _She wasn't my girlfriend at the time. She was just my friend. We were both new to the school, and didn't really fit in. I got assigned to show her around. One day she got really angry because she was being treated like an idiot because English isn't her native language, and because of her accent and also because her voice is lower than the average woman's, I had a hard time understanding her sometimes, and they'd mentioned sign when I was at the hospital originally but I'd rejected the idea, so that day I decided maybe it would be easier for both of us if we just learned a language that we could share. A language where we were on equal footing. Equally bad, and then equally good._ He shrugged. 

_That explains a lot,_ she said. _You sign... you don't sign like someone who's been taught. You sign like someone who has learned from, like you said, books and videos. The vocabulary is there, but the actual ASL grammar is a little bit spotty. If you were ever to actually meet Deaf people, they would probably... well, some of them might not feel like you belonged as part of the community. If I was you, I would stay in the ASL 1 class, let it be a fairly easy A, and really work on the basics of that._

Clint could feel his cheeks heating up, but maybe she had a point. He glanced away, and saw a flash of red hair, and then Natasha appeared at his side as if out of nowhere. "Speak of the devil," he said.

She raised her eyebrows. "Were you talking about me?"

_Yes. Natasha, this is my interpreter Julie. Julie, my girlfriend Natasha._

_Nice to meet you,_ Natasha signed.

_Nice to meet you as well,_ Julie said. _And that explains even more._

Again, Natasha's eyebrows shot up, and she looked at Clint for an explanation.

_Apparently we sign funny,_ Clint said. _Not badly, just not quite the way a native signer would._

_And you're both left-handed,_ Julie said. _You learned together from books and videos, which typically present signs as they would be made by a right-handed person, and in some cases you've switched them so that you've got the dominant and non-dominant hands correct, even though it's the opposite of what's in the picture, but then sometimes you don't, and I would be willing to bet that both of you do it the same way. You basically have your own sign dialect. A dialect of two._

"Huh," Clint said. He guessed it made a certain amount of sense. _Cool._

Julie smiled. _Cool, but it might get you some funny looks._

_We've never much cared what other people thought,_ Natasha said.

_Good for you,_ Julie said. _I've got to get going. I'll see you tomorrow, Clint. Have a great night._

_You too,_ he replied, and then turned his attention to Natasha, and dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got asked this a lot last week, so I figured I would just let everyone know - the last regular chapter of the story will post on Sunday, October 4, and an Epilogue will post on Wednesday, October 7, which is the third anniversary of the day that I started posting Ghosts That We Knew. There is a possibility that there may be other stories written in the series here and there, catching up with the characters, but for the most part, that will be the end. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for coming along on this journey with me!


	53. Chapter 53

"It's going to be weird without everyone there," Clint said, shoving his bag into the backseat of the car. "Y'know?"

"I know." Natasha looked at him over the top of the car, her hand resting on the top of the door, about to shut it. "Do you not want to go?"

"I..." Clint had been going back and forth on that all week, ever since they'd gotten the invitation from Tony for his annual Labor Day bash at the cabin. It had been a long week, and next week promised to be a longer one with the start of classes, and part of him just wanted to stay at home, enjoy the fact that they had a place to themselves with peace and quiet, and maybe explore the city a little more before he got thrown into the thick of being in college. But this was tradition, and he might get to see some of his high school friends for the last time for a while... but then, he might not after all. "I don't know," he admitted. 

"Tony will be there, obviously," Natasha said, "and Bruce. Jessica said she was going to try to make it, but I don't know what that means, that she'll try."

"She might just have been saying that to avoid saying no," Clint said.

"Maybe."

"Have you talked to her?" Clint asked. 

"She's texted a few times," Natasha said. "She hates living in the dorms."

"I'm shocked," Clint said dryly. 

"Me too," Natasha replied, smirking. "I told her that it's not forever, and that she'll get through it. I think she ignored me. I think she just wanted to vent. What about you? Have you talked to anyone?"

"Bobbi," Clint said. "She can't make it. It's too long a trip for just a weekend."

"Too bad," Natasha said. She closed the back door and slid into the passenger's seat. "Anyone else?"

"Steve isn't sure," Clint said. "He doesn't think it's really a great environment for Sharon – he probably has a point there – and he doesn't really want to just leave Peggy to deal with her all weekend on her own, even though I'm pretty sure Peggy is used to it. He said he's going to try to come up for a day, hopefully, but not stay overnight."

Natasha nodded. "It's a good compromise."

"Yeah."

Clint twisted the key in the ignition, and at that point conversation pretty much stopped. Natasha turned up the music to mitigate the silence, and Clint just let it wash over him, not really paying attention to the words – Natasha had chosen it and they might have been in Russian for all he knew – and just felt the beat. 

The drive was longer from Boston than it had been from... home? It wasn't home anymore, but it had been at the time... and by the time they got there, he already felt wiped out and ready to crash... and it was only lunch time. The cabin was packed mostly with people that Clint didn't know, although he recognized a few from the year before, and from Tony's birthday, so they must be some of Tony and probably Bruce's college friends. There was food set out and they dug into it, and once he had a couple of sandwiches and some caffeine in him he started to feel better.

"Great weekend for a party, huh?" Tony asked, throwing his arms around both of them and nearly earning himself an elbow in the gut from Natasha in the process, because she hadn't seen him coming and didn't react well to being startled. "The weather is supposed to be perfect. You know where everything is, and I saved your room for you – it's got your name on the door and everything – so go ahead and make yourselves at home."

"Thanks," Clint said, and meant it. Before he could say anything else, Tony had bounced off to go talk to other people. Clint just shook his head and rolled his eyes at Natasha, who shrugged and smiled. 

_We might as well take our stuff up,_ Natasha said. 

_Might as well,_ Clint agreed, and they grabbed their bags and headed upstairs.

When they finally came back down, they found Jess there, looking around as if she was completely baffled as to why there were so many people there, and where to go and what to do. When she saw them, she shoved her way through a knot of people they didn't know (earning several dirty looks that she either didn't notice or didn't care about in the process) and headed straight for them. "Thank G—I'm glad you're here," she said. "I was starting to think you hadn't come."

"We came," Clint said, not meaning to make a pun (or whatever it would be) but unable to resist smirking when he did. Natasha nudged him, but Jessica seemed to miss it... which was probably for the best for all of them. "I'm glad you made it."

Jess looked at him and shrugged. "Are you?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

She shrugged again. 

"We're friends, whether you like it or not," Clint said. "Practically family."

"That's not a good thing," Jessica said. "Not exactly a great track record with the whole family thing, here."

"Me either," Clint said. "Biologically speaking, anyway. But, see, the thing about family is that it's not all about blood. You get to choose your family sometimes, and that's the family that really matters."

"That's corny as hell," Jessica said, but even so her mood seemed to lighten, if only just a little. "Do you know if there are any rooms still free?"

"I think so," Natasha said. "The one across the hall from ours had the door open and no sign on it, and I didn't see any bags in there, so if you want it, I would go grab it."

"Thanks," Jess said, and headed upstairs.

They'd changed into their bathing suits before coming down, and after grabbing beach towels from the seemingly endless supply in one of the closets, they headed down toward the water.

Clint left his hearing aids in his shoes, and dove into the water. It was cold, and for a second he worried that he would drown as his lungs seized up, but he was able to get his arms and legs moving to tread water long enough to adjust. He was about to call to Natasha to warn her, but she splashed in next to him before he had a chance. Maybe she was more used to the cold than he was, because she didn't seem bothered... or maybe she was just smarter than he was and had through to dip her toe in to test how cold it was before taking the plunge. 

They swam for a little, and then found themselves some giant tubes to relax in, letting the gentle waves of the lake water rock them. Clint though he could probably fall asleep there, but with the sun shifting in the sky, he didn't want to risk it hitting him while he was asleep and turning him into a lobster while he wasn't paying attention. He'd put on sunscreen, but for all he knew it had washed off by now.

Finally, when their skin was wrinkled as raisins and they were starting to feel hungry again, they headed back in to shore. Wrapped in towels, they approached the tables where food had been spread out, and there was more there than either of them had ever seen at one time, or at least it seemed like it. A guy and a girl they didn't know were manning the grill, making sure that they didn't run out of hamburgers, hot dogs, sausages, chicken... if it was grillable, they were grilling it, and they even has a section of the grill for veggies and veggie burgers, and separate utensils for them and everything. 

_Did he have this thing catered?_ , Natasha asked as they went down the length of the tables, picking and choosing from all of the side dishes. 

_Probably,_ Clint said. 

All of a sudden, Natasha froze beside him and looked away so abruptly that he knew that someone must have called her name or something. He followed her gaze and stopped too, and he actually scrubbed at his eyes as if he might be hallucinating. 

Carol. She was saying something, but before he could fish his hearing aids out of his pocket (and Natasha was too startled to interpret), someone came flying past them, and Carol was knocked back several steps, just barely managing to keep her balance and support the weight of the person who had just thrown herself into her arms.

"Wow," Natasha breathed. "I... didn't see that coming. At all."

"I thought she wasn't into PDA," Clint whispered back. 

"She's never been away from Carol for an entire summer, either," Natasha pointed out. 

Carol set Jessica down, but they were completely wrapped up in each other for another few minutes, forehead to forehead, fingers laced into each other's hair, cradling each other's necks and backs of heads, completely lost in their own world that was comprised only of the two of them. Finally they split apart and went to get plates.

Natasha and Clint spread out their towels in a little grassy patch away from the main party, and a few minutes later Carol and Jess came and joined them.

"Long time no see," Carol said, grinning at both of them. "How are you?"

"Good," Natasha said, at the same time that Clint said, "Fine. How are _you_?"

"I'm okay," Carol said. "I mean... I'm good. Great. Sometimes." She shrugged, looking a little sheepish. "It's easier than I thought in some ways, and a lot harder in others. Like... being away from the people I love. That's brutal."

"Yeah," Clint said. "I can't imagine."

"I'm glad you don't have to," Carol said. Her knee was pressed against Jessica's, and she was fumbling a bit, trying to eat left-handed because her right was gripping Jess's like she couldn't bear to let go. "How are things in Boston?"

"They're good," Clint said. "Our apartment is pretty much set up, and we both survived orientation, so..." He shrugged. "Classes start next week. I guess that will be the true test."

She nodded. "I'm glad that you found a way to stay together," she said. "I... I know that I made the right choice. Still. I just wish that..." She stopped, loosening her white-knuckled grip. "I hope that I can get stationed near enough that I won't be going weeks or months at a time without seeing everyone." 

Clint knew that when she said everyone, she really meant Jessica, and he understood. How could he not understand? He remembered what it was like being separated from Natasha during the trial, how hard it had been not knowing how she was, or where she was, whether she was okay. To be most of the country away and basically not allowed to talk to anyone in the outside world for six weeks, or eight, or however long it was? He couldn't imagine. "How long before you know where you'll be stationed?"

"I don't know," Carol said. "Hopefully soon."

"How long is your leave?" Natasha asked. 

"Five days," Carol said, and looked at Jess. "I'm sorry."

"I'll take what I can get," Jessica said. "It's better than nothing. I have to go back on Monday anyway."

Carol looked like she was going to say more, but then she just closed her mouth, nodded, and finally said, "Okay." But it clearly wasn't okay, and Clint wondered what she wasn't saying about being in the Air Force, and basic training, and being away from everyone and everything that she knew and loved, and whether she would actually say it, any of it, to Jessica later. He hoped she would, because it seemed pretty clear that she needed to get it out, but at the same time, he didn't want them getting into a massive fight at the party. But maybe they were done with fighting. 

They could all hope, anyway.

They kept the conversation to neutral topics, about who had heard from who and what classes they would be taking and whether they'd met any interesting people... the kinds of things that you talked about when you were catching up with someone that you used to know, but now you feel like you don't know them at all. Clint didn't like the feeling. He didn't want Carol, or Jessica, or any of the people who had made high school bearable to become people he used to know. But they'd already gone their separate ways, and they would never have the same common ground again that they'd once had. 

In their room that night, he took out his hearing aids to shut out the sound of the people still laughing and shouting and splashing around outside, even though the sun had long since gone down. There were lights out on the dock so they could still see what they were doing, at least enough to (probably) not jump on anyone else's head when diving in.

_Do you really think she's happy?_ , Clint asked, because he couldn't keep it in any longer. 

_Carol?_ Natasha shrugged. _I don't think happy is really a factor at this point. I think she feels like she is where she needs to be. I think she's doing well, and I think the structure is helping her to get control of herself and her life. I think that eventually the rules may start to chafe, if they haven't already, but I think she's smart enough to figure out how to game the system from within it as much as she can, and as she needs to. I think that things will get easier for her... or maybe I just hope that. But seeing them together..._ She shrugged again. _I don't know._

_I don't either,_ Clint said. _I can't imagine not knowing where I was going to be sent next, how far away from you I would be or how long I would be there. I could never just leave you behind._

_I know._ She reached out and took his hand, squeezed it, then let it go. _But they are not us._

_I know. ___He sighed. _I just wonder... is it really good for them? It's like when they're together, they're happier, but then they know that that isn't going to last. It's like that quote, or that cliché, whatever, about how it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, but is it really? If I... would you rather..._ He didn't even know how to formulate the question, because the idea of going somewhere where she wasn't just seemed impossible.

_I don't know,_ Natasha said. _We don't need to know._

_Yeah._

In the morning, Carol and Jess were still speaking, and that seemed like a positive sign. Clint had been more than a little worried that they would blow up all over again, and in the morning one or both of them would have gone without saying goodbye. But they were both there, and if they weren't quite so glued together as the day before, they weren't ever out of each other's sight for long. 

The day was hot and humid, and they spent most of it in or on the water, because it sort of felt like you were swimming through the air anyway, so why not do it where you were a little bit wetter and whole lot cooler? And Steve showed up, and was so happy to see Carol that Clint thought his face might split from grinning so wide.

By the time they had dinner, they were all exhausted, and were happy to sprawl out on towels for another picnic. This time the conversation flowed a little easier, and at one point he called Bobbi to tell her that she was missing out, which maybe was a little bit cruel but she didn't seem to mind too much. She told them about her dorm and her roommate ('Not ideal, but could be worse' was her conclusion) and how her mother was calling her every day, sometimes more than once, as if being out of her immediate reach made it more likely that Bobbi would just keel over ('And I get it, I do, but it's like, seriously, Mom, nothing has changed since breakfast!') and the stupid icebreakers that they'd been made to do at various orientation things, and how people never knew how to respond when she had to give a fact about herself that no one knew and she told everyone that she'd died once. (And yes, she knew that that was kind of cheating because obviously people knew, but no one _there_ knew, so she figured it counted.)

Finally she said she had to go, and Clint put his phone back in his pocket. "She sounds happy," he said.

"She does," Carol agreed. "Good for her. Hey – we should call Pepper!" 

Which led to another round of playing catch-up (roommate situation was dire, but classes promised to be awesome and she had already joined three clubs), and by the time they headed to bed, they'd called basically everyone – even Loki – to get an update. Somewhere along the line, Tony and Bruce had joined them, and it was almost like having the whole gang together again. Almost.

"I should get back," Steve said. 

"You don't have to," Tony said. "You could stay the night."

"I could," Steve said, "but I shouldn't. I told Peggy that I would be home tonight, and even though I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I called and said I was staying, Sharon might, and it's really important right now that we give her as much stability as we can. She's been through a lot for a little girl, and we're still getting settled in and figuring out this whole family thing, and I don't want to rock the boat too much."

"You're like a little old man before your time," Tony said, but there was no ire in it. "Do you want to take any food home? We have tons."

"Sure," Steve said. "It'll be a treat for the girls for tomorrow."

"Take as much as you want," Tony said. "There's still more in the fridge. I think I might have ordered too much."

"Who pays for all of it, anyway?" Jessica asked. 

"I do," Tony said. 

Jessica's eyebrows went up.

"With the credit card my father gave me," Tony amended. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not," she said. "I was just curious."

"Well now you know," Tony said. "It's the least he can do, considering that he doesn't actually seem to care whether I live or die."

Bruce frowned. "That's not true, and you know it," he said. "He would care if you died."

"But he doesn't care about what I do, as long as I'm alive," Tony said. "If he cared about that, he might actually show a little bit of interest."

Bruce sighed. It was obviously an old argument, and one that they'd had many times. They'd all heard it from Tony before, to varying degrees, but Clint figured that Bruce had probably had to deal with it more than the rest of them... possibly combined... considering that he'd actually lived with Tony for a while. For a second he was tempted to point out that having your parents' attention wasn't always all that it was cracked up to be, but he figured that Tony probably wouldn't see the humor in it so he kept his mouth shut.

After Steve left they sat around the fire for a long time, until finally the flames began to die down, and as if the dampening of the light had had a similar effect on the mood of the group, people became more quiet, turning inward, maybe thinking about the weekend, or maybe thinking about what was waiting for them when they returned to wherever they were returning to. Part of him didn't want to go back to quote-unquote real life, but part of him was ready to get started, and getting sick of waiting. 

Finally the group quietly broke up, retreating to bedrooms and a few people to their cars to head home and beat the holiday rush that would inevitably happen tomorrow. "We'll want to leave early tomorrow," Clint said. "Otherwise we'll probably be stuck in traffic forever."

Natasha nodded, and set the alarm on her phone.

When they got up in the morning, there weren't very many people up yet. One of the few that was was Jessica, and Carol sitting at the table, watching her as she mixed pancakes and drizzled the batter into a pan. "Now you're going to want me to make you some, aren't you?" she asked. 

"Please?" Clint said, putting his hands together in a pleading gesture. "Think about how long it will be before I'll have pancakes again."

"Natasha knows how to make them," Jessica pointed out.

"Knows how, yes," Clint said, "but one, that doesn't mean she will, and number two, they're not as good as yours. Ow!" He yelped as Natasha pinched him. "What?" He looked at her, sulking. "You've said so yourself."

"Yes," she said. "I am allowed to say so. You're not."

He stuck his tongue out at her, and she laughed and got out dishes to set the table for the four of them for breakfast. Jessica grumbled, but she mixed a little more batter (which probably wasn't entirely necessary; she'd already made more than enough for two, probably even three people) and made stacks of both plain and blueberry pancakes for all of them.

"I'll clean up," he told her when they were finishing up eating. "Go enjoy the last few hours of summer."

She didn't argue. She went, and Carol followed. Natasha stayed and helped him clean up, which mostly just meant rinsing things off somewhat and putting them in the dishwasher, and then setting it to run because it was full. 

_Time to go?_ , she asked.

_I think so, yeah,_ he said. 

So they went upstairs to pack, and once their bags were in the car, they went down to the dock to say goodbye to Jessica and Carol. "Be strong," he whispered in Carol's ear as he hugged her. "You'll make it."

"Thanks," she whispered back. 

They were about to get in the car when Tony came bolting out the front door. "Wait!" he yelled. "I have something to give you!" He was wearing only boxer shorts and a bathrobe that hung open, and carrying something fairly large and flat. He skidded to a halt in front of them. "I was going to wait until Christmas, but I would probably forget by then," he said. "Considering that I meant to give it to you last Christmas... and the Christmas before that. So... considering it a housewarming gift, I guess."

Clint pulled away the paper that had been wrapped around it. It was a picture frame, and in it was a picture that had obviously been taken that first summer they'd come here. It was the two of them, or their backs, jumping off the dock hand-in-hand. "How...?" 

"Someone had taken a bunch of pictures at the party that year, and they sent some of them to me, and this was one of them."

"Who?" Natasha asked, staring."

"I dunno," Tony said with a shrug. "Some kid named Peter?"

"Thank you," Natasha said softly. 

"No problem," Tony said. "Drive safe. I'll see you guys around."

"See you," Clint agreed. They wrapped the picture back up carefully and put it in the back seat where it would be safe. Then they got in and buckled themselves, and Clint discovered that driving with one hand was hard, but not impossible... and completely worth it since it meant not letting go.


	54. Chapter 54

Tuesday. It was only Tuesday, and yet still he felt wiped out. If he was being honest, it really wasn't that hard, but he suspected that it would get harder. Pretty much every class had just been the instructor introducing him- or herself, and handing out the syllabus, explaining what the class was about and what they were going to do... and that was about it. They said that the second time the class met they would start to get into things a little bit more, but even then it was like the teachers (instructors? Professors? Was there a special name you used for teachers when you were in college?) knew that they were all just getting settled in, just figuring things out, and had gone easy on them for the first week.

He had two classes three times a week – Monday, Wednesday, Friday – which were a little over an hour long, and two classes twice a week (Tuesday and Thursday, obviously) which were almost two hours long each, but when all was said and done, he would be spending less than sixteen hours in classes each week. So basically it was like two days' worth of high school, only spread over an entire week. Sure, there was theoretically more homework, but it was mostly reading at this point, which took time but time was something that he had plenty of.

And again, if he was being honest, he was going a little bit stir-crazy already. He was still working on getting a job, but even when he did, his work study grant that was part of his financial aid only covered about ten or twelve hours a week, which still left him plenty of time to, well, be bored. He had thought about looking for a job outside of the school, but had been strongly discouraged from doing so by pretty much everyone. They were all afraid he would over-extend himself and fall behind on his school work, and maybe they had a point, but maybe they didn't? He figured he would see how well he got through the first semester, both emotionally (or intellectually?) and financially, and then make a decision. After all, he wasn't living in the dorms so his housing and food weren't already paid for (well, they were, kind of, but he didn't want to be completely reliant on Natasha's money to take care of him, even if she said it was blood money and she would like nothing better than to make sure that they both lived well on it) so he couldn't afford to just completely slack off like a lot of kids could.

Clint pushed himself up off the couch and went to the refrigerator, opening the door and peering in to see what they had that he could turn into dinner. He'd thought about taking Natasha out, but he figured she would probably be as exhausted as he was, so he decided dinner in would probably be a better choice. She would be happy enough that he was the one making it, he figured, and not her. Not that they had some kind of unspoken rule that she was the one who had to make dinner because she was the girl or whatever bullshit... it was just that she tended to get home before him, and even when she didn't she would shoo him out of the kitchen a lot of the time. She was used to making dinner, she said, and he wasn't, and just let her get on with it.

She _was_ the better cook, but he hadn't spent so much time with her and Jessica (and the Food Network) and not learned a thing or two. So he got dinner started, and was surprised when he heard the door shut half an hour later. It felt like no time at all had passed.

Natasha came over, looked into the pan, and smiled up at him. _Thank you,_ she signed. _It looks – and smells – delicious._

"Thanks," he replied, because his hands were full. "Do you want to set the table or are we just going to eat on the couch?"

_I'll set the table._

They sat down to eat a few minutes later, and Clint had to admit that it had actually turned out pretty damn good. For the first several minutes, not a word was said, because their hands were full with utensils and their mouths were full of food. Once they'd both had enough that they felt like they could put their forks down, they settled into their nightly ritual of rehashing their days together.

_I got a job,_ Natasha said. 

Clint felt his eyebrows shoot up. _I didn't know you were looking for a job,_ he replied.

_I wasn't._ She rolled her eyes slightly. _And yet now I have one._

_What are you doing?_ , he asked. _Is it through school?_

Natasha nodded. _I'm working as a tutor,_ she said. _Usually they're volunteer positions for most students, but I'm getting paid for it._

_Why?_

_Because I'm special,_ Natasha said, smirking.

_I know that,_ Clint said. _But I'm pretty sure that that's not why they're paying you to do something that most people volunteer to do. Which... who would volunteer to do work when they can get paid for it?_

_It **is** why,_ Natasha said, her smile broadening. _More specifically, it's because I'm Russian. I found out through the office which handles international student affairs that a lot of times they will hire non-international students who speak a particular language to tutor international students. So I asked about it, and took a few tests that proved that I was moderately proficient in a few things, and they gave me a job._ She shrugged. _It's only a few hours a week, working with another freshman – which I guess is a little bit unusual, but apparently people who speak Russian are a bit thin on the ground on campus – to help him with his classwork... mostly just on making sure that he understands it, since it's all in English and his English is... good but not great?_

_Have you met him?_ , Clint asked. He could feel something stirring in the pit of his stomach, and he tried to swallow it down, because he knew that he had no reason to be worried, no reason to be jealous. They had been together in one way or another for three years now, and she'd never gotten sick of him before. She'd never wanted to go explore other options... or at least she'd never mentioned it if she had. 

But then she'd never really been around other people who came from where she came from, who understood her world, and her language, the language of her birth. She hadn't had anyone to remind her of home, to remind her of what it was like to have someone who understood her, understood the culture she was raised in...

Well, no one except the men that she'd never wanted anything to do with but hadn't been given a choice about.

_Yes,_ she said. _He's nice enough, although he thinks his English is better than it actually is, and he's not really into the idea of needing help from a woman, but as long as I let him think that he's the one calling the shots, it should work._ She shrugged again. _A job is a job._

_You don't--_ , he started, but she shut him down with a look.

_I don't **need** to work,_ she said. _But I want to. I want at least some of my money to be money that I earned, doing a job that I chose._

_Okay,_ he said, because what else could he say? Any argument he might make at that point would only make him look like an asshole. So he just stretched his arm across the table, palm-up, offering it to her. She took it and squeezed and smiled and let go to take another bite.

By the end of the week, they were both exhausted, so when Natasha's Russian... what was the word for the person that you tutor? Clint had no idea... invited her out to dinner, she accepted... for both of them. Except from the look on his face, she hadn't actually told him that she would be bringing someone along, and he wasn't exactly 100% happy about it. 

The guy was tall (or at least taller than Clint), with sandy brown hair and blue eyes and a face that probably got him a lot of attention from girls. He said something to Natasha, and Clint assumed that it was in Russian because one, he didn't understand it, and two, Natasha responded the same way, then switched to English and said, "Clint, Sasha. Sasha, Clint."

Clint hesitated for a minute, his eyes flicking to Natasha. Wasn't Sasha a girls' name? Wasn't one of the president's daughters named Sasha? Then he just shrugged internally and held out his hand, "Nice to meet you," he said. "I've heard so much about you." Which wasn't entirely true, but he wanted to see how this guy would react.

"Nice to meet you," Sasha echoed. "Natalia is never mention you."

Or maybe he said something else entirely. His accent was thick, his voice gravelly, and Clint had to resist the urge to reach up and fiddle with his hearing aids to make it more comprehensible, because he knew that it wouldn't work. Whatever the case, Clint was pretty sure that the comment was intended to make him feel small, just like the crushing grip that boy-Sasha had on his hand was supposed to intimidate him. 

"So where are we going?" Clint asked.

"This way," Sasha said, and turned to lead them down the street.

As soon as his back was turned, Clint looked at Natasha and spelled out, _S-A-S-H-A?_

She nodded. _In Russia, it's a common nickname for boys. His full name is Aleksandr. Here, it would get shorted to Alex. In Russia, Alexi or Sasha._ She shrugged. 

_Why didn't you tell him I was coming?_

_Because I didn't want to give him the chance to object,_ she said. _He seems to have gotten it into his head that because we both speak Russian, this gives us some kind of connection that could be more than friendly. I wanted to make sure that he knew he was wrong, without actually having to say no._

Clint stopped, not caring that their guest – or host, he guessed – was getting farther away. _Why can't you just say no?_

_Because I want to keep my job,_ Natasha said. _Because it's good money and I want to be able to help him, so I don't want to piss him off._

_You don't think this will piss him off?_

_I think it will piss him off less than a direct rejection,_ Natasha said. _I don't think he's used to girls saying no to him._ She frowned when she saw the look on Clint's face, half worry and have rage. _That sounds worse than I meant it to._

_If he ever—_

_if he ever, Bobbi has taught me plenty to make sure that he doesn't again. And if he won't let it go now that he knows that I have a boyfriend, then I will just have to find another job._

Clint sighed, tense. _Okay,_ he said, but it wasn't really okay at all. Not that he didn't think that Natasha could handle herself. She was right; Bobbi had taught her plenty for her to keep herself physically safe, and he didn't have any doubt that she would use it if she had to. It was just... why would she put herself in a position like this in the first place? If the kid was a jerk, and she didn't need the money, why would she put up with it?

But as she picked up the pace to catch up with Sasha, who had just turned to look and see where they were, he could see the determination in her face, like she was walking into the lion's den and she wasn't going to come out until she had won the fight. She was facing down something that should, and maybe did, terrify her, in a way that was (relatively) safe. 

He would have to trust her. 

Sasha led them into a restaurant, and it was noisy and dim and they were seated in a booth in a back corner where the lighting was especially poor. He growled (or at least it sounded like a growl to Clint's ears) something at Natasha, and Clint saw her lips purse, the faintest flash of displeasure, before she responded, in Russian first, then in English. "It's not polite to leave Clint out of the conversation," she said. 

Now Sasha was the one who looked unhappy. "I do not ask you out to practice English," he said.

"Why else would you ask me out?" Natasha asked, her tone level, even, and leaving no room for argument.

"Fine," Sasha said, but after a few stilted attempts at conversation that Clint could neither hear nor comprehend, he lapsed into scowling silence.

The menu was in Cyrillic, and even where it was translated into English Clint wasn't really sure what half of it was saying. He left it to Natasha to order for him, trusting that she wouldn't try to make him eat anything too gross. "Just no borscht," he told her. "I can't eat soup that looks like Pepto-Bismol."

She laughed. "I don't like borscht either," she reminded him. 

Sasha looked offended. "How you cannot like borscht?"

"Beets taste like dirt," Natasha said. "You are welcome to have as much as you want."

He shook his head, muttering something, and Natasha rolled her eyes. _He thinks I'm not a proper Russian._

_Good,_ Clint signed back, with more emphasis than was probably necessary, given the side-eye that Natasha gave him. 

"What is this?" Sasha demanded, watching their hands. "What you are doing?"

"Sign language," Natasha said, signing it at the same time. "Clint is deaf, although his hearing aids help, but it's hard to read lips in the dark and this place is noisy, so..." She shrugged 

Sasha said something that Clint didn't understand, and Natasha glared at him and snapped something back... something that took a while to say. By the time she was done saying it, though, Sasha's expression had changed completely – first to shock, then to anger, and then to... resignation, maybe. So maybe she'd told him 'No' after all... or Clint guessed 'nyet'. 

Whatever the case, after that he actually seemed to make a real effort to be nicer to Clint, even though they had to go through Natasha as a translator, and at some point Sasha gave up on speaking English, and Clint realized that Natasha was shifting words from Russian to English to ASL... except maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was just going straight from Russian to ASL. He'd never thought to ask her what language she spoke in her head. Whatever it was, it was pretty damn amazing, that she could so easily go back and forth.

By the time they finished their meal (and Sasha paid for all of them, which Clint hadn't been expecting) they actually got along at least sort of okay, and Clint was at least a little bit more okay with Natasha working with the guy. Maybe it was all an act, but if it was, the guy deserved an Oscar or an Emmy or whatever award got given to good actors, because it really seemed like he'd accepted that Natasha was, in fact, off limits.

From the looks on the faces of some of the girls in the restaurant as they left, Clint got the feeling that in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn't really be that big of a deal for Sasha to find a girl – a Russian girl – who was plenty interested in what he had to offer.

When they got home, they collapsed into bed, and Natasha curled against his chest, wrapping her arms around him tightly. He hugged her and pressed a kiss to her hair. "I'm right here," he whispered. "You know I will always be here for you."

He felt her nod, but it was a long time before her grip on him loosened and her breathing evened out. He hoped that this would be the end of it, that Sasha would treat her as a tutor only going forward, or maybe as a friend, but not as a possible romantic partner. Because the last thing that Natasha needed in her life was some pushy Russian guy to stir up everything she'd been trying for three years to forget.

From how little either of them slept that night, though, Clint got the impression that maybe it wouldn't be so easy. But the only way out was through, and he would do whatever he could to make her feel safe again. Because that was what he did. That was what he had always done, or tried to do, from the day they met, and he thought that mostly, most of the time, he succeeded. And she helped him make sense of the world, so he figured they were even. Not that either of them were keeping score.


	55. Chapter 55

Clint had felt his phone buzzing in his pocket during class, but he hadn't checked it. He knew that other students checked their phones all the time, and god knew what they were doing on their laptops and tablets while they were supposed to be listening to the lecture, but due to the fact that he had to be able to see his interpreter, he was pretty much forced to sit in the front of the room, so that wasn't really an option for him. Which was probably a good thing for his grades and all... but sometimes he got curious.

He waved goodbye to Julie as the class was dismissed and filed out after everyone else before pulling his phone from his pocket.

It was from Steve. 

STEVE: Got any plans this weekend?

CLINT: Not that I know of, why?

When a response didn't come immediately, Clint assumed that Steve was probably in class, or working (did he have a job? He had to have a job, right? He had a family to support, and wasn't that a weird thing to think about?), and stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

It buzzed again as he was riding the T home, so he fished it out and flicked on the screen.

STEVE: Sorry, was driving. Thought maybe you and Nat would like to come with us t

Clint started to type, but the little icon that indicated that Steve was typing popped up, so he waited.

STEVE: Sorry again. I was going to ask if you and Nat wanted to go with us to The Big E.

CLINT: When you say us, you mean...?

STEVE: Me, Peggy, Sharon. Maybe Bucky.

STEVE: I get it if you don't want to, but you wouldn't have to stay with us the whole time. Just figured I would offer.

CLINT: I'll ask Natasha.

STEVE: Great. Just let me know. Planning on going Sunday.

CLINT: I will.

He got home before Natasha, and thought about starting dinner but he thought he remembered her mentioning that she had something in mind to make, so he left it alone and started a load of laundry instead. At first they'd kept two separate laundry baskets – one for his clothes, one for hers – before realizing that that was just kind of silly. Now they still had two separate baskets, but it was pretty much regular clothes and clothes that required special washing, and that Clint was basically forbidden to touch. 

He sorted out the light stuff from the darks (there wasn't much in the former pile) and stuffed the larger load into the washer, putting in the soap and twisting the dials to the positions that Natasha had told him were correct, then pulled out the knob to make it start. He watched the water swish around for a few seconds, then decided to get started on his homework, because, well... it wasn't like he had anything better to do, right?

Natasha got home an hour later, and half an hour late, looking like she was ready to tear out someone's throat. She flopped down on the couch next to him, and he slid his arms around her reflexively, his fingers sliding into her hair and combing through the waves and gentle curls. "Bad day?" he asked.

She shrugged, then nodded. _I don't want to talk about it,_ she signed.

_Okay,_ he signed back with his free hand, because he knew that when she was ready, she would tell him, and there was no point in pushing for her to do so before then. It would only make her clam up and clamp down harder on whatever she was feeling about whatever was going on.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, but it was long enough for the dryer to buzz signaling that the laundry was done, and she looked up at the sound and peeled herself away from him. _Thank you,_ she signed, looking over at the empty laundry basket. _I was going to do it this weekend._

_Now you don't have to,_ Clint said. _Anyway, we might have plans for the weekend._

She raised an eyebrow.

_Steve asked if we wanted to go with him to The Big E. Him, Peggy, and Sharon, and possibly Bucky._

_Bucky...?_ Her forehead creased. _His friend from the picnic? The one with PTSD?_

_And one arm,_ Clint said. _Yeah. He said we wouldn't have to stay with them the entire time. I think maybe he was just mostly offering a ride. I don't know._

_Do you want to go?_ , Natasha asked.

Clint shrugged. He honestly wasn't sure. It would just be another thing that they used to do as a group that they were now doing with just a fraction of who ought to be there, and he wasn't sure that he wanted or needed another reminder of the fact that his friends, his family, had scattered across the country and that the likelihood of all of them being in the same place at the same time ever again was slim to none.

On the other hand, saying no and distancing himself from what remained of the group didn't really make sense, either. If he wanted to keep up his friendships, turning down invitations when offered wasn't really the way to go about it. _We usually have fun,_ he said finally.

_We do,_ Natasha agreed. _We might as well. We don't want to be an old married couple just yet... especially when it's the old married couple who is extending the invitation._ The corner of her mouth quirked up as she signed it, and Clint couldn't help laughing.

_You have a point,_ he said. _I'll tell Steve yes, then._

_I'll get dinner started._

Clint found his phone (it had slipped down the side of the couch) and texted Steve back.

CLINT: We're in. Just let us know when/where to meet you.

STEVE: Can you meet us here? You have our address?

CLINT: Yeah. What time?

STEVE: Don't hate me. 7?

CLINT: I do hate you, but okay.

STEVE: LOL See you then

CLINT: Yeah, see you

"He wants us there at seven," Clint said. "I guess that's what happens when you have kids."

"One of the many reasons that we never will," Natasha said, glancing at him to see if he'd caught the words, and then looking at him more fully like she was waiting for a response... or maybe an argument.

"Right," Clint agreed, and he thought that was the end of it, but that night he could feel her tense beside him when she should have been relaxed, and he reached over to switch back on the light so he could see her hands. 

_You know that, right?_ , she asked. _That I don't want to have kids?_

_I know,_ Clint said. 

_I'm not going to change my mind._ The look on her face was so intense, her gaze felt like a weight, or a heat against his skin.

_I didn't think you would,_ Clint said, then added, _Did you think I was going to try to convince you otherwise?_

Natasha pushed herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. _Most men would,_ she said. _Bloodline, legacy, family name..._

Clint pushed back a strand of her hair from her face. _I'm okay with the Barton family name dying with me,_ he said. _Unless Barney decides to carry it on._ He grimaced at the thought. _But I knew that was never on the table. I didn't want it to be._

_**You** won't change your mind?_ , she asked. 

_No,_ he said emphatically. _I won't change my mind._

_Okay._

_Okay._

And this time she did relax after, and fell asleep with her body fitted against his, and didn't move again until morning.

On Sunday morning Clint woke up to her kissing him, softly and repeatedly, and he decided that if he had to wake up before the damned sun on a weekend, that that was a pretty awesome way to do it. He glanced at the clock, mentally calculating how much time they had, and decided they could afford to get distracted for a little while before they needed to get up and shower and get dressed. 

Natasha didn't seem inclined to argue with his assessment, and he wondered if maybe she'd set the alarm this early on purpose.

_I'll make the coffee,_ Natasha said a little while later, her hair wrapped in a towel and her body wrapped in a robe. _Go get clean._

_Do I have to?_ , he grumbled, but when she yanked the covers off of him, leaving him exposed to the chilly morning air that crept in through the open window, he guessed that meant that they'd used up the buffer of time that they'd factored in, and they actually needed to be getting on the road soon. So he got up and showered, and by the time he got out and tugged on his clothes over still-damp skin, there was coffee ready, and Natasha was dressed, and after deciding that with the amount that they were likely to eat at the fair, there wasn't much point in having breakfast, they got in the car and headed out.

Apparently no one else in the world though that getting up this early on a Sunday morning was a good idea, because the highways seemed pretty much empty... or as empty as they ever got around a major city. They arrived at Steve's house – well, apartment – earlier than they'd expected, and when they were buzzed in, they stepped into chaos. Not _complete_ chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

"Sharon, you need to sit down while you're eating your cereal," Peggy said, at the same time that Steve greeted them with, "Don't mind the boxes. We just finished unpacking but haven't had a chance to break them down and take them out... or store them, for next time." He smiled sheepishly. 

"No worries," Clint said. "We spent a good couple of days surrounded by IKEA packaging." 

"How are things at your new place?" Steve asked. "I'm sorry I haven't really been by to see it or anything. We're just..." He shrugged. "I thought I knew what I had signed up for. Turns out I had no idea. Neither did Peggy, so we've sort of been parenting by the seat of our pants."

"It's good," Clint said. "It's really good." 

"You will come over for dinner one day," Natasha said. "Maybe next weekend, or soon."

"I'd like that," Steve said, then, hesitating, added, "Just me, or...?"

"Your family," Natasha said. "Of course your family."

"Hi, Aunt Natasha!" Sharon said, waving from where she was perched on a stool at a little counter. "Hi Uncle Clint!"

"Hello," Natasha said, and Clint waved, and it might have gone on from there but then Peggy stepped in and urged Sharon to finish and then go brush her teeth and come back so they could do something with her hair.

"Everyone is aunt and uncle," Peggy explained after Sharon had slid down off her stool and headed for the bathroom. "Everyone she likes, anyway." She smiled. "So consider it an honor."

"I will," Clint said, smiling at her. 

"Speaking of which, where is Uncle Bucky?" Peggy asked. "I thought I'd seen him get up."

"I think he went into our room to change," Steve said. "I can check, if you want."

"No, it's fine," Peggy said. "I just lost track, I guess. As long as he didn't run away from the craziness."

"I don't think so," Steve said, but now he looked worried, like that might actually be a possibility. But before he could really get any sort of panic going (did Steve Rogers panic? Clint didn't think so) Bucky stepped out of the bedroom, wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with one arm dangling. 

"Hey," he said, glancing at them, then his attention went back to Steve. "Hey, can you pin up the sleeve? It looks more normal having it hanging, but it's just going to get in the way."

"Of course," Steve said, and did as his friend asked like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Did you eat?"

"I had some toast," Bucky said. 

"Okay," Steve said, then smiled crookedly. "I forgot. You were never really a breakfast person. Or a morning person."

Bucky smiled back, and Clint was pretty sure that was the first time he'd ever actually seen the man do so. Not that he'd interacted with him that much, but it seemed like he'd definitely made some progress since the last time they'd met. Other than the lack of an arm, he seemed... almost normal.

He turned as if he'd felt Clint looking at him, the smile still in place. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your names," he said. 

"Clint." He held out his hand, thankful that the arm that Bucky was missing was his left, or it would have been awkward. 

Bucky shook it, then Natasha's when it was offered. "Natasha."

"That's right," he said. "Sorry. My memory is still like swiss cheese sometimes."

"You meet many people all at once at picnic," Natasha said. "Is easy to forget."

"Oh, that's right," Bucky said. "You're not from around here."

Natasha's eyes narrowed slightly. "No," she said. "Not originally." 

Bucky shook his head. "That didn't come out the way I meant it to. Russia, was it?"

" _Da_ ," Natasha responded. 

"I think we're just about ready," Peggy said, picking up a backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. "Clint, were you planning to follow us, or did we all want to ride together? We've got enough room for everyone, and it would save you from having to pay for parking separately, but I understand if you want to go in your own car so you can leave early or stay later if you want to."

Clint glanced at Natasha. _Do you care?_

_We've been before. I'll be fine leaving whenever they're ready to go._

_Okay._ "We'll ride with you," Clint said. 

"Great," Peggy said. "Let's get going, then." Sharon cheered and led the parade down the stairs to the parking lot, straight to a vehicle that wasn't quite a minivan, but it was pretty close. Clint guessed it was probably sold as a large (family size?) SUV.

Steve got behind the wheel, and Bucky was given shotgun without having to call it. Sharon was still small enough that she needed a booster seat, and Peggy took the seat beside her, leaving Clint and Natasha to the back seat. From there, Clint really couldn't follow the conversation that was going on in front of him, since he couldn't see anyone's lips, and although Natasha would interpret for him if anyone asked him a direct question, mostly they just sat back there quietly.

The drive felt like it took forever, and maybe it actually was longer than it would have been from home. They finally arrived and parked, and headed toward the entrance gate. Clint reached for his wallet to pay their way, but Steve brushed him off. "We've already got tickets," he said. 

"How much were they?" Clint asked. "I'll—"

"Don't worry about it," Steve said. 

"Seriously?" 

"Seriously," Steve said. "Consider it a housewarming gift... that doesn't actually clutter up your house. Although I guess you might buy stuff that would, so... yeah." He smiled. "It's the least I can do."

He said it as if he owed them something, which didn't make any sense to Clint, but he wasn't going to make a scene arguing about it. Especially when Sharon was already trying to make a beeline for the tent where they sold large inflatable things.

Clint and Natasha stuck with the others for a while, but once the state buildings opened up, they headed that way while the others headed towards the rides and games, which were far more interesting to Sharon than Maine tourism and Vermont maple syrup (although Clint assumed she would be very interested in the maple cotton candy if she saw it). They agreed to meet up with the rest of the group at 2:00 pm, which was about the time that Peggy thought Sharon might be starting to get tired. They would assess whether they wanted to stay longer at that point.

Steve hadn't been wrong about buying things. Really, Clint thought they were pretty reserved about it, but having a few extra mugs for morning coffee (or tea, sometimes, in Natasha's case) was never a bad thing, right? And a pretty tile that they could use to put hot dishes on to protect the table would be useful, too. Mostly, though, they ate their way through the fair, because wasn't that the whole point? 

When they met back up with Peggy and Steve and Bucky, Sharon was clearly worn out, her head resting on Bucky's shoulder as he supported her with his one good arm. He bounced her up and down gently, and she smiled, one hand clenched in his shirt to steady herself.

"Was there anything else that you wanted to see?" Steve asked them. "We can probably make it another hour or two without any meltdowns if you're not ready to go."

"No," Natasha said. "We have seen everything we want to see."

"Okay," Steve said, and sounded relieved. "Let's head out, then."

They made their way back to the gate (which took longer than expected as each of them got distracted by one last thing that they wanted to take a peek at before they left) and to the car. Bucky deposited Sharon into her booster seat, and she held him fasten the buckle for her. She was out like a light as soon as the car started moving.

"Thanks for coming," Steve said when they got back to his apartment. "I know we didn't really get much time to talk, but... I'm glad that you came."

"Thank you for inviting us," Natasha said. "I mean what I said about dinner."

"Just let me know when," Steve said. "We'll be there. Assuming that there's not something already planned." He grimaced slightly. "This whole having a kid thing involves a lot of scheduling."

"But is worth it, no?" Natasha asked, and not in the way that most people would, assuming that the response would be 'of course' because everyone wanted children, right? 

"It's worth it," Steve agreed. "I don't regret the decisions we've made. It's just... a lot to juggle. Moving to a whole new city, so I have to get used to that, and starting at a new school, so I have to figure all of that out, and Peggy starting at a new school at the same time, and not even the _same_ school, because that would be too easy, and then adding a little girl into the mix who has her own school to worry about, and all that goes along with it, and therapy appointments and visitation, and..." He shook his head. "Our calendar is insane. But tell me when and we'll make it happen."

"We will," Natasha said. She hugged Steve, and Clint did the same because it would have felt weird not to at that point. He stayed on the sidewalk until they'd driven away. 

Traffic had picked up by the time they were returning, so they couldn't really talk until they actually got home. When they did, though, they opted for cool showers (the day had turned out warmer than expected, and they were covered in dust besides) and a nap instead. 

_Did you have a good day?_ , he asked Natasha when she woke up.

_Yes. Did you?_

_Yes. But I'm glad we're never having kids._

She pulled him in to kiss him. _Me too._


	56. Chapter 56

Sometime between when they'd gone in and when they'd come out, some kind of small dog park or animal shelter had sprung up outside of the supermarket. There was a little table set up with flyers and brochures, and when Clint looked at the banner strung across the front, it turned out that it was, in fact, an animal shelter, and this was one of their mobile adoption clinics.

He started to walk past, but the woman behind the table must have caught him looking, because she called out, "Come on over! Don't be shy!"

"We have to put the groceries in the car," Clint said, gesturing toward the cart. 

"Well come on back after," she said, smiling, but he could see the disappointment in her eyes already. Probably people said that all the time, using it as an excuse to make a quick getaway before they could get suckered into making a potentially bad decision. Because who could resist a cute furry face and a pair of pair of pleading eyes? (Or two pair – one human, one dog.)

"Okay," he said, and pushed the card down the cutout of the sidewalk and toward the car. He and Natasha unloaded the bags into the trunk and he shut it. _Well?_ , he asked.

_Well what?_

_Do we go back or not?_

Natasha frowned, glancing back at the little fenced in pens that contained flopped out tongues and wagging tails. _I don't even know if we're allowed to have pets,_ she said. 

_We could ask,_ Clint said. 

Her frown deepened, but finally she nodded. _We can look._

So they went back, and when the woman behind the table saw them her face split into one of the brightest smiles he'd ever seen. "Hi!" she said, as if she hadn't already greeted them. "Thank you so much for stopping by! Feel free to say hello to the animals, and let me know if you have any questions!"

"Thanks," Clint said, and turned toward the pens. Most of the dogs were smaller – probably easier to move around – and jumping up against the bars and yapping at them for attention. He leaned down to scratch behind a few ears, but he wasn't really interested in a dog that he would have to constantly worry about stepping on. He glanced at Natasha, who seemed similarly unimpressed. He was ready to give up, having at least appeased any guilt he might have felt over disappointing the adoption lady by just walking away, when they got to the last pen.

Inside was a larger dog – not big, but big enough – all black except for a stripe of white that went from the tip of his nose to the top of his head, where it formed a point that looked a little like an arrow, and few more spots of white on his chest and toes. His eyes were liquid brown, and his tongue lolled out as he looked up at them from the toy he'd been chewing on. His ears flopped sideways, not quite folded over, and Clint reached out a hand to him.

He bounced up immediately and came over, letting Clint rub his head, then sat down and looked at Natasha, offering his paw. She reached out and took it, and the dog tossed his head like he was so proud that she'd understood. She laughed. 

The woman at the table came over, smiling at them. "I see you've met Max," she said. "He's been with us for a little while. He came into the shelter pretty young – about four months – and we placed him out but he came back a few months later. Both times he was surrendered because they just couldn't handle his energy." She smiled sadly, shaking her head. "He's a good dog, though. Smart, as you can see. He knows all of his basic obedience commands, and he's completely housebroken. It's just... when he gets bored he can get a little bit destructive. He needs a family who can give him a job to do, or that will have people around a lot to keep him a little bit busier."

_Sounds like Tony,_ Clint signed, and Natasha laughed. The woman looked at them a little strangely, and Clint said out loud, "It sounds like one of our friends. If he's not busy, he's destroying things. Or, well... sometimes his idea of keeping busy ends up destroying things anyway, but it's in the name of science, so it's okay. He's at MIT now."

"Ah," she said. "So you're college students?"

Natasha nodded. "Yes."

"That might be a great fit," the woman said. "Since you're only in classes for a few hours a week, you'll be home more than someone working full time. Unless you have jobs as well?"

"We do," Clint said, "but not full time." He'd found a job working at the student union, staffing the desk where people could book the rooms for meetings and things, and it was pretty boring and not really something he planned to keep doing if he could find something else, but it brought in a little money, and it allowed him to get homework done while he was working, which was definitely a plus. 

"So you would be home and able to take him out on a regular basis," she said. "Which would be ideal."

"We would have to check with our landlord to see if we're allowed pets," Clint admitted. 

"Of course," the woman said. "But if you're interested, why don't you go ahead and fill out an application now, and that way once you get the okay from your landlord, we'll be good to go." She said it like she was sure that they _would_ get the okay, but maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. 

"Can we have a few minutes?" Clint asked.

"Absolutely! Just come on over to the table when you're ready." She went to go talk to a family with what looked to Clint like way too many small children. 

_What do you think?_ , Clint asked.

_I think we don't know yet if we can have a dog,_ Natasha replied. _There's no point in applying if we end up not being able to take him. We shouldn't get anyone's hopes up._ The unspoken implication there was 'including ours'. 

_But do you **want** to, if we can?_ , Clint asked. _Because there's no point either if it's not something that you want._

Natasha looked down at the dog, who was watching them as they signed, his eyes going back and forth like he could actually follow the conversation. When he saw Natasha looking, he offered his paw again, and Clint could actually see any reservations she might have melt away. She stroked one of the dog's ears. _His name is not Max,_ she said. 

Clint grinned. _I agree. He looks more like an Arrow to me._

Natasha rolled her eyes. _Everything looks like an arrow to you,_ she said. _His name is Cherno._ She spelled it out, and then said it out loud so he could hear it.

_Cherno? Why?_

_It means black in Russian, and it just sounds like a good name._

"Cherno." 

The dog's ears pricked up, and Clint would swear that he almost nodded at them, like he was encouraging them, or like he already recognized his new name. _Should we try calling him now? Is it too early?_

Natasha looked at her phone. _No. I don't think it's too early._

_Will you call?_

She nodded, and brought up the number for their landlord. She put her phone to her ear and then took a few steps away, because the kids from the family were ramping up the noise as they clamored for their parents to let them take home one of the fuzzy little anklebiters. 

When Natasha came back, she was smiling. _He says as long as we clean up after it, he doesn't care. It's our funeral going up and down the stairs to take it out all the time._

Clint grinned. _Let's go do some paperwork, then._

They sat down at the table with the woman, who looked absolutely thrilled when she heard that they'd already gotten approval from their landlord. "I know it looks like a lot," she said, handing them a packet that was three pages long, "but we really want to make sure that we're making the best choice not only for the animal, but for the potential forever family."

"Of course," Natasha said. 

It took them almost twenty minutes to fill everything in, and Clint wondered if they were maybe trying too hard, but now that he'd gotten it into his head that they could maybe actually do this, that maybe they could give a home to this dog that was apparently as much of a misfit as they were, and as much in need of a place to call home, well... he didn't want to be told no. 

"What happens now?" he asked as they handed it over. 

"Now we review the application, and if we think that you're a good fit – and I already think that you are – we may do a follow-up call, and sometimes we do a home visit, but not always. We'll verify with your landlord that you do have approval for a pet – I see you listed the phone number here – and if everything checks out okay, we'll let you know when you can come pick him up."

"How long does it usually take?" Clint asked. 

"Not usually very long," she said. "Especially with Max, where he's already spent much longer with us than we would like, I'll do everything I can to expedite it. I would say that it would be a week at the longest. We're actually here every weekend this month and next, so if it all works out, we can bring him back next week for you to pick up, and save you the trip to the shelter."

"That would be great," Clint said. "We do have a car, though, so if we have to we can come get him."

"We'll call and let you know," the woman said. "But I really think that you may be just the people we're looking for."

"Thanks," Clint said. He went back over to the pen where Max - _Cherno_ \- was sitting, looking at them like he couldn't figure out why they hadn't set him free yet. He reached down to pet him. "Soon, buddy," he said. "You'll be home soon."

Natasha ruffled his ears, letting the silky fur slide through her fingers. "We promise," she said, even though they couldn't, not really, because it wasn't up to them. But they'd moved heaven and earth before, so why not now?

As promised, they got a call a few days later, from someone else at the shelter who was in charge of making sure that the animals got matched with the best possible families for them. "Sometimes," she said, after running down a list of questions similar to the ones on the form, with a few new ones that seemed to mostly be aimed at getting to know them and what they were looking for in a dog, "people think that they want one thing, but really, what would suit them best is something else entirely. And sometimes people have an idea of what one kind of dog is like, and will rule it out when it might actually be the best choice for their lifestyle."

"What kind of dog is Ch—Max, anyway?" Clint asked. They had the phone on speaker and Natasha was interpreting for him so that he would actually know what was going on. 

"We're not sure," she said, "but our best guess is a cross between a black lab and a pit bull."

"Okay," Clint said. "Not that it matters. I was just curious."

"I'm glad to hear that," she said. "A lot of people would be put off by hearing that he's part pit bull."

"I've heard they're actually really good dogs," Clint said. "Really smart and friendly, and that some of them that have been bred and raise to fight will still completely love people, even after everything they've been through."

"That's exactly right," the woman said. "It sounds like you've been doing your research."

Clint shrugged. "I guess. Mostly I've been trying to figure out what kinds of things that you need when you get a dog, and how to train them and that kind of thing. Like what's the best way."

"We'll help you out with all of that," she said. "When we place a dog, we are there to support its new family every step of the way. We want things to work out for everyone, and if that means helping you out with training, or finding a trainer for you to work with, then we can do that. If it means getting you hooked up with a vet – we noticed that you didn't list a vet reference, but I understand you're new to the area – we can definitely help you find someone."

"That's good," Clint said. "I mean, I had a dog once when I was younger, but... not for long."

There was a pause before the woman asked, "What happened?"

"My dad said it ran away, but... I think he just... made sure that when we moved on, it didn't come along." Clint bit his lip, realizing that he probably shouldn't be saying this. "We moved around a lot. And he wasn't the greatest guy."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the woman said.

"Obviously I would never do something like that," Clint said. "I loved that dog. We went everywhere together." Which was probably why Clint's dad had hated it; he didn't much like when his kids were happy. If he was miserable, everyone ought to be, seemed to be his way of looking at things.

"I'm sure you wouldn't," she said. "Did you have any other questions for me?"

"Uh... not that I can think of?" Clint said. 

"If you do think of anything, please don't hesitate to call."

"How soon we will – will we – know?" Natasha asked.

"We've got one more application for Max from a family who saw him on Saturday and who seemed pretty excited about him, so we need to call them, but I don't see any reason why we won't be able to make a decision by the end of the day tomorrow."

"You will tell us if we do not get him?" Natasha asked.

"Yes, of course. We'll tell you either way. And if we do decide that he would be better off with the other family, there are other dogs at the shelter that you might be interested in meeting."

They looked at each other, and Natasha slowly shook her head. They'd made up their minds. This was their dog. After saying goodbye, Natasha hung up the phone. Neither of them slept very well that night.

The next day, in the middle of dinner, Natasha suddenly scrambled out of her chair, grabbing her phone and pressing it to her ear. Clint fished his hearing aids out of his pocket and jammed them into his ears just in time to hear Natasha say, "Really?" There was a pause, and then, "Yes. We will be there. Thank you."

She dropped the phone and the couch and just stood there, her back to him. He got up and went to face her as she stared, dumbstruck, at the wall. _What happened?_

_We got him,_ she said. _He is ours. We can get him Saturday._

_Really?_ , Clint asked. 

_Really._

He was glad no one was around to see them as they danced in circles together, and then sat back down to finish their dinner. 

On Saturday morning they were up earlier than any college student ever should be on a weekend, but they wanted to make sure that they got to the mobile adoption thing as soon as they arrived, pretty much, to pick up their dog. It was still a little weird to think about, the fact that they were getting a dog... and getting a dog _together_ , both of their signatures on the adoption form. Somehow it felt more permanent than getting an apartment together. They weren't just committing to each other, they were committing to someone – well, something – else, and after this any decisions they made would impact more than just them.

They ended up getting their early, and so when they saw the van pull up with the shelter name on the side, they headed over, figuring they might as well help them get set up or something... or maybe they would just be allowed to take Cherno and go.

It seemed a little rude to ask, though, so they stepped in to help unload the table and set up the pens, and then stood back as each dog was transferred from a crate into a pen. Last to emerge was the still slightly gangly, not quite full grown bundle of energy that would be theirs as soon as a few forms were signed. 

"We already got a tag made for him and everything," Clint said, showing it to the woman as she flipped through the pages to make sure that all of the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed. 

She smiled. "That's great. He's been microchipped, so if he ever gets lost any shelter or vet can scan him and see who he belongs to. You just have to make sure to go online and get your information associated with it. He's fixed, got all of his shots, rabies vaccination and tag... so you should be good to go. You got a collar and leash, or you need one?"

"We've got one," Clint said. He worked the tags onto it, and then walked over to where Cherno was waiting, his tail going faster and faster, and clipped it around his neck. He attached the leash, and the woman let him out of the pen. 

"Congratulations," she said. "You've got yourself a dog."

They shook her hand – all three of them – and then they headed for the car. Cherno settled down in the backseat like he knew that he was meant to be there, occasionally poking his nose between the two front seats to look at them, almost like he had to make sure that they were still there. 

"We're not going anywhere, buddy," Clint said, scratching his head. "Don't worry. You're going home for good now."

It was surprisingly easy to fit their new pet into their routine, hectic as it could sometimes be. He was a good dog, always happy to see them, and yeah, okay, sometimes he demanded a lot of attention but so what? They had the time to give it, and if both of them were busy with something, they could just give him a bone and he'd be content, at least for a little while. Clint honestly couldn't figure out why the other two families had given him up. Maybe they just hadn't been able to handle a puppy being a puppy? Maybe he'd grown out of some of the less-than-endearing traits that had made him not fit in. Their loss, Clint figured, and tossed the tennis ball across their small yard for what felt like the millionth time.

It was completely by accident that they realized just how smart he really was. Clint had gotten in the habit of taking out his hearing aids as soon as he got home, because they were annoying and because he didn't need them. He was in the guest room working on a paper when Cherno came barging in and nudged at his elbow with his nose. 

Clint scratched his head, figuring he just wanted a little attention, and went back to his paper. Cherno didn't give up, though, and when Clint turned to give him his full attention, the dog darted to the bedroom door, and then came back to him, nudged him again, and went back to the door. 

"Do you need to go out?" Clint asked. Cherno sort of bounced a little, so Clint got up and headed for the door that would take them down the back stairs to the yard. But Cherno didn't follow. He stood at the front door, wagging his tail and looking at Clint expectantly.

So Clint grabbed the leash and hooked it to his collar, and went down the front steps instead. When he got to the front door, he discovered Natasha standing on the porch, scowling at her phone. He opened it to let her in.

_You had your hearing aids out, didn't you?_ , she asked. _I rang the doorbell, but then you didn't answer so I texted you._

_Oh. I left my phone in the living room, I think. Sorry._

She frowned as they headed back upstairs, led by Cherno, who seemed to have forgotten all about wanting to go outside. _If you didn't get my text, and you didn't hear the bell, how did you know to come downstairs?_

Clint looked at the dog, then at her, then back at the dog and his inexplicable behavior that wasn't so inexplicable after all. _Cherno,_ he signed. _He told me._

_The dog...?_

Clint explained what had happened, and he could see Natasha glancing over at where Cherno lay on his bed, chewing happily on the big rubber bone they'd gotten for him like nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. 

_Go finish your paper,_ she told him. _I want to look something up._

It turned out that what she was looking up was whether or not dogs could be trained to help deaf people, to do exactly what Cherno had done, but to actually have it be their job to do so. Turns out that there were, and that there were organizations that trained dogs for people to do it, but that there really were no formal requirements for a dog to be considered a service dog. As long as it could behave and had certain tasks that it performed for a person, it could be considered a service dog, and no one could really question that.

_You don't even have to go through a formal trainer,_ Natasha told him later. _You can train the dog yourself._

_Okay..._ , Clint said, honestly not sure where she was going with this. _So in case someone rings the doorbell, and you're not home and I don't have my hearing aids in, he could let me know. That's cool._

_It could be more than that,_ Natasha said. _He could have alerted you to your phone ringing. Or buzzing. Or if you're home alone at night –_

_Why would I be home alone?_

Natasha rolled her eyes. _If you were, and the smoke detector went off, he could alert you to that. Your alarm going off in the morning. Someone calling your name in the street._

_That would only help if he was with me, though,_ Clint pointed out.

_That's the whole point!_ Natasha's expression was somewhere between exasperated and adamant. _He could be with you all the time. What if you were crossing the street and a car was coming and you didn't hear it? He could let you know that, too._

_I would have my hearing aids in,_ Clint said, not sure why he was arguing with her, or at least playing devil's advocate. Maybe it was just that he wasn't used to thinking about things actually working out, and so he fought against the hope that she offered. 

_Yes,_ Natasha said, _but we both know that that doesn't mean that you hear everything. And what if you have an ear infection or something?_ Which was a distinct possibility; they were fairly common for people who used hearing aids, especially the big bulky ones like Clint had. _What if your hearing gets worse, and the hearing aids stop working as well?_

Another distinct possibility, according to his audiologist. Just because hearing tended to degenerate with age in general, and he was far from getting old, but when your hearing was already damaged, it was really only a matter of time. 

_Okay,_ Clint said. _We can try._

Natasha smiled. _Good._

_But we might want to look up people who actually know what they're doing. Just in case. Because if we're going to do this, we should probably actually do it right, instead of just making shit up as we go along._

She laughed, and he could feel the vibrations of it even though he couldn't hear it. _Why not?_ , she asked. _It's how we've always done things, and it seems to have worked out all right so far._

_I guess,_ Clint agreed. _Still... we're new to this, and even though you said there's really no formal requirements, I want to make sure that if I get questions about it, I've got names to give and that kind of thing, you know?_

_We can look people up in the morning then,_ Natasha said. _Right now, I think that Cherno has earned a long walk before bedtime._

_I think you're right._

So they grabbed his leash and they headed out, making their way to a park that wasn't really a dog park, but it was fenced in and at this hour no one was really around to care if they let Cherno run free for a little while. 

It was hard to imagine, with him sitting with his ears all cock-eyed and his long hanging long out of one side of his mouth as he waited for them to throw the ball for the umpteenth time, that he could actually be anything other than a dog – smart, loyal, obedient and a little bit goofy – but he'd proven this afternoon that he could be. Unless it was a fluke, and that was a possibility... but what if it wasn't? 

Clint didn't like to admit it, but sometimes walking around in the city by himself, without Natasha or anyone else at his side, got a little bit scary. Because she was right. What if there _was_ a car coming and he didn't hear it? Or what if the fire alarm went off, at home or somewhere else, and he didn't hear it? The buildings on campus all had strobe lights that flashed as well as the piercing sirens, but not everywhere did. Having a dog that could hear for him would do a lot to make him feel a little more secure when he was out on his own.

It was just a question of whether or not they could actually figure out how to train him to do what needed doing. But they'd accomplished a lot, hadn't they, in the last few years? This wasn't a big thing when compared to taking down an organized crime ring, or wrangling over a hundred kids for a summer (although obviously they'd had help there). This was just training a dog, and that was something that people did all the time. 

So he let hope grow. He let himself believe that this could work, too, like moving to Boston and living together and going to college seemed to be working so far. Because what was the point of living without hope? What was the point of just surviving? That was all his parents had done, and hadn't he always told himself that he would be more than they were, better? This was his chance.

He threw the ball one last time, and when he came back with it, dripping with slobber, signed, _Let's go home._ The dog headed straight for the gate, as if somehow, inexplicably, he understood.


	57. Chapter 57

Clint waited until after class, approaching his teacher only after everyone else had left the room, and she was packing up all of the papers that had been turned in that day, stuffing the stack into a bag that looked like it was already bursting at the seams.

"Uh... can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked. 

"Of course," she said. "Walk with me."

"Um, that doesn't really... work for me?" Clint said, feeling heat rising in his face. "Walking and talking. It's hard to look someone directly in the face?"

"Oh, right." She smiled. "I need to get over to my office," she said. "Do you have somewhere you need to be right after this?"

"No."

"Then walk with me, and we'll talk when we get there. If that's all right. I just have something I need to give to someone, and I'm afraid I'll miss them if I don't get back."

"Okay," Clint said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and trailed half a step behind her, because he didn't know where they were going and the whole situation felt really awkward as it was. He knew that he had already been given certain accommodations for his classes, but that was mostly just having an interpreter. This was the first time he was asking for any kind of special treatment, and he wasn't sure that it was going to go over well. Especially since it didn't have anything to do with the fact that he was deaf.

But he had no choice. He had to ask, because the results of not asking would probably be worse than asking and being told no. Right?

The building where her office was wasn't far away, but she was up on the fifth floor so they took the elevator. As the door opened, she stopped. "Oh, thank god I caught you," she said, and rifled through her bag to hand over a book to someone who was headed in the other direction."

"What... oh! Thank you," the person replied, and then went on their way, catching the elevator back down. 

"This way," his instructor – she'd told them all at the beginning of the semester that they could just call her Stacy, which was kind of a weird change from high school where everyone was Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. whatever, and daring to imply that they were actually on a first-name basis was likely to get you detention. 

"What can I help you with?" she asked, finally sitting down. He was in the chair next to her desk, situated in such a way that they were facing each other pretty directly, and she was looking right at him, making eye contact and everything, which he'd discovered since he'd lost his hearing was a pretty uncommon thing. 

"I... didn't hand in my paper," he said, scrubbing his hands against the knees of his jeans. "I didn't get it finished. I'm sorry."

Her eyebrows went up, and the corners of her mouth dropped into the beginnings of a frown, but she didn't look angry, exactly. More... concerned? "What happened?"

"I just... It's about half done. Maybe two-thirds? I didn't wait until the last minute or anything. I just had other stuff that I needed to get done first, and I was going to finish it up last night, but then... things just... Something came up. And I couldn't."

"I don't mean to pry, but would you mind telling me a little more about what 'came up'? Was it work for another class, or...?"

"No. No. It was... personal."

The frown deepened. "Again, I'm not trying to pry into all of the details of your life, Clint. But if I'm going to make an exception, give you an extension, I do need to have at least a little bit of an idea of what's going on."

Clint sighed. "I was just up all night taking care of my girlfriend," he said. "We live together, and... she'd had a really bad day, and it turned into a really bad night, and I just... didn't sleep much. Or have time to really do anything but... damage control, I guess? That's not the right word, but... She's just been through a lot, and it all got stirred up yesterday, and I thought okay, once she goes to sleep it'll be okay, but then it was just nightmares, and not the kind that you just go back to sleep from, and so... that was more important than a paper," he said. "Last night, that was more important."

"Okay," she said. "You said you're about two-thirds done?"

He blinked. It was that easy? Not that it was easy, even saying that much, because it felt like he was violating Natasha's privacy somehow, but he'd try to say as little as possible. "Yeah," he said. "Around that, I guess."

"Do you have it with you?"

"It's on my laptop," Clint said. 

"Do you have that with you?"

"Yeah."

"Can I take a look?"

"I guess." Clint pulled out his laptop and loaded the paper up. He hadn't been lying; he really did have a good chunk of it written, and he guessed it made sense that she would want to see some kind of proof that he wasn't bullshitting just to get out of getting marked down for handing in the paper late. 

She scrolled through, skimming, and when she got to the end she nodded. "Two-thirds seems like a fair estimate," she said. "Do you think you can have it done by class on Thursday?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "I'm pretty sure I can. I mean, I know I can." He had a work shift in a couple of hours, and as long as nothing blew up he could probably get it done then. 

"All right. You have until class on Thursday to finish it, then," she said. "I'm sorry you had such a rough night."

Clint shrugged. "It wasn't me. It was Natasha. She just... like I said, she's been through a lot, and sometimes it just... comes up, you know? The shi—stuff you try to bury, it just comes back up." The words were out before he could stop them, and maybe the night before had upset him more than he'd realized.

It was as if he'd forgotten what it was like to feel so completely helpless in the face of what Natasha – his girlfriend now, but his best friend pretty much from the start – was going through. It had been years since he'd felt like there was nothing that he could do to make things better. Sure, he could reassure her that it was all over, that she was safe now, that nothing like that was ever going to happen to her again, but they were just words, and empty promises because could he _really_ guarantee she wouldn't be hurt again? 

She wasn't even sure what had stirred it all up. He just knew that it had been building since the start of the school year, and he couldn't help wondering if it was the fact that suddenly she was having to speak Russian again, having to deal with a near-daily reminder of the culture that she'd left behind because it had become toxic to her. It wasn't that she hated being Russian, she'd told him; she was proud of many of the traits that growing up in that country had given her. But at the same time, just like there were things about being American that weren't so great (things that made people in other countries hate Americans, or so he was told), so too were there aspects of being Russian that were less than ideal, and she'd seen the worst of those time and time again during that first six months that she was in America, and now as Sasha kept trying to remind her of where she'd come from, intentionally and not so intentionally, she couldn't help being reminded of all of that, too.

"The past is never really the past," his teacher told him. "Sometimes things you thought you'd forgotten will come back up, and it's not always at a time that's convenient. But you make it sound like this is a pretty... extreme isn't the word that I'm looking for, but I'm failing to come up with another one... case of that. You make it sound more like PTSD."

Clint couldn't help the soft huff of breath that he let out, not a laugh because it wasn't funny, but something like. "That would almost be an understatement," he said. 

Her eyebrows went up. "Again, I know it's not really any of my business, and if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to, but I want to help you as much as I can, and not just with class," she told him. "It sounds like you're saying it _is_ PTSD."

"I don't know if she ever got that official diagnosis," Clint said, "but yeah. Probably."

"Can you – would you mind telling me what happened? Because it seems like it affects you pretty strongly as well."

Clint bit his lip. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But at the same time, keeping it a dirty little secret... wasn't that kind of letting them win? The men that had done this to Natasha, if she was still haunted by it, didn't that sort of mean that they still had her locked up, trapped in the cage that they'd created?

But telling his teacher – it wasn't his place to tell. It wasn't his story... except it _was_ his story, too, had become part of his story, and not all of the nightmares that had kept him from finishing his paper last night, or getting up early to do it this morning, had been hers. 

"Can I... have a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. She turned her attention to the clutter on her desk, trying to tidy it using some sort of organizational system that didn't really make any sense to Clint, before adding to it with the new stacks of papers. 

He pulled out his phone and texted Natasha. 

CLINT: Asking for extension on paper. She said OK but now is asking what happened last night. Maybe said more than I should have. She said PTSD? Why? I don't know if I can/should answer.

The response felt like an eternity in coming, even though the little icon that told him that she was typing popped up right away. 

NATASHA: Which teacher? Which paper?

CLINT: The one I didn't finish last night. For my... I don't know what req they call it, but basically is social studies/current events.

NATASHA: You didn't tell me the paper was due today.

CLINT: It didn't matter. You were – ARE – more important. ALWAYS.

The pause this time was longer. The typing icon popped up, then disappeared, then popped up again.

NATASHA: Tell her.

CLINT: You sure?

NATASHA: Yes.

CLINT: Okay. I love you.

NATASHA: I love you too.

He wasn't sure if she was really as okay with it as she said, and he wished that he could have seen her face instead of just letters on a screen, because as much of a mask as she was able to put on in front of other people, he had learned to peek around the edges and see what lay beneath. If he could have seen her face, he would know for sure whether she actually mean it, and how conflicted she was about it. 

"Are you... from around here?" Clint asked. "New England?"

"Not originally," Stacy said, "but I've been here since I was an undergrad, which is more years ago than I care to disclose." She smiled, and Clint was pretty sure that it was a joke, because she wasn't _that_ old; she'd probably graduated a few years ago... five, tops.

"And you paid attention to what was going on?" Clint asked. "In the news?"

"Not always as diligently as I would have liked," she said, "but I always tried to keep up. Hence why I teach a class like this." She smiled. "Why?"

"Do you remember seeing anything about three years ago about a, uh, organized crime ring that got busted?" Because it was easier to talk around it than straight at it. It felt like less like a betrayal, even though Natasha had told him it was okay. Part of him still felt bad for asking in the first place. He wasn't even sure why he felt like it was necessary to keep talking about it when he'd already been given the extension for the paper.

"I think so, yes," she said. "Russian, wasn't it?"

" _Da,_ ," Clint said, then smiled wryly. "Yes."

His teacher's eyebrows drew down at that. "What does that have to do with your girlfriend?"

"Everything," he said. "She was the one who brought it down. Finally. Once and for all."

Silence. She just stared at him, dumbstruck, and finally motioned for him to go on.

"She – Natasha – grew up in an orphanage in Russia. She was fifteen when this man showed up claiming to be a long lost uncle, wanting to take her to America. She didn't remember having any uncles but her parents had died when she was really young, and getting out of the orphanage, getting to go to America, seemed like a good idea at the time. But he wasn't her uncle, and he wasn't bringing her here for any kind of real opportunity. But he underestimated her. She knew about school, that kids were supposed to go to school, and I guess at that point he was still trying to convince her that everything was normal, that she hadn't been brought here for any other reason than that he wanted to give her a better life. I think he thought that she would give up on school quickly because it would be hard, not speaking the language and all. And it wasn't easy, but she stuck with it. And when everything started falling apart, she still didn't give up. Finally, it got to the point where she refused to put up with how she was being treated, and we – she – talked to the school social worker and got him to call the FBI. Turns out they were already aware of them, had been trying to find a way to bring them down for a while, and Natasha's testimony was what they needed to finally get them."

"Wow," Stacy said after a moment. "That's..." She shook her head. "Of course in the news they never released any names or pictures, because she was a minor, and I remember them being deliberately vague about certain things, but... you're serious? It was your girlfriend that drove the nails into the coffin, so to speak?"

Clint nodded. "It was... it wasn't easy. I knew..." He took a deep breath. "I knew what was happening for a while before it ended. Every day, I had to let her go home, knowing that she was going back to a place where she was being hurt, being used – and when I say being used I know you know what I mean – and just... I had to let her go anyway. We had to have a plan, because she was afraid that if we said something to someone too soon, they wouldn't actually get arrested, or if they did, she might get sent back to Russia, or... Every night for months, I had to try to fall asleep not knowing what was happening to her... or knowing and not wanting to know... and just... Sometimes she would call me in the middle of the night and I would just talk, because she couldn't, not without getting caught, but she needed to know that she wasn't alone. And last night... last night it felt like we were right back to that time, except we were together and instead of just talking to her on the phone I could actually reach out and touch her, but..." He shrugged. "It was a bad night. Probably the worst we've had since it all ended."

"I'm sorry," she said. "That's a lot to go through, at any age but especially when you're that young. Both of you. That's incredible, though, that you both go through it, and you're still together. I assume you've both been to counseling and such about it?"

Clint shrugged. "I guess. Not really. We don't talk about it. That's what... I texted her to ask if it was okay to tell you. I mean, it's not really my story to tell. Even the parts that are."

"It sounds like it's something that you've both kept pretty close to your chests," Stacy said. 

"Only the people who needed to know knew," Clint said. "Mr. Coulson – he was the social worker – and Mr. Fury, who was the principal who became Natasha's foster father. My foster parents knew some of what was going on; I had to tell them something to make them understand why it was so important that I be able to see her even when they didn't necessarily think it was quote-unquote appropriate." He thought about it. "That's pretty much it, I think, unless maybe Natasha told Jess or something."

"Jess?" 

"A friend of ours, and Natasha's foster sister. It's... our group of friends was – is – kind of a mess. Or... not a mess. But an island of misfit toys. There was something different, something just a little outside of the norm, for all of us, and we just kind of banded together. Well... except maybe Thor. He didn't really have anything wrong with him."

"Except that his parents named him Thor," Stacy joked.

"They named his brother Loki," Clint replied, "so really, he was doing okay even there."

She laughed. "You have a point. Seems like you're looking at creating a self-fulfilling prophecy, giving a kid a name like that."

"They kind of did," Clint said. "He's in New York, going to school for acting now. He'll probably be famous someday."

"Then you can say you knew him when."

"I guess so, yeah," Clint said.

"Can I ask you something?" 

Clint was surprised by the hesitation in her voice. "You just did," he said, trying to make light.

She rolled her eyes. "Would you – if you're willing, and if you think that she would be, and that it wouldn't make things worse for her – would you be willing to ask your girlfriend – Natasha – if she would possibly be willing to speak to the class about her experiences? I know that it's a lot to ask, but as I'm sure you've noticed, we have quite a few guest speakers coming in to talk about the various different topics we'll be covering, and that one is on the syllabus, but I hadn't been able to find anyone to actually talk about it."

"I don't know," Clint said immediately, a sick feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. "I can ask, but..."

"That's all right," she said. "I know that it's a longshot, and the last thing that I want is to cause her any kind of harm by making her talk about it before she's ready. And if you're not comfortable even asking, I understand that, too. Just let me know."

"Okay," he said.

"Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" she asked. 

"No. I'll make sure my paper is done for Thursday."

"Great," she said. "I look forward to reading it."

Clint kind of doubted that, but he nodded and got up to go. She smiled and waved and turned her attention to the stack of papers in front of her.

By the time he got home, he'd decided that he wasn't going to ask. His teacher didn't have any right to ask him to do that, or to ask Natasha to talk about something that she never talked about to anyone. It was bad enough, the things that had been coming up lately in Natasha's dreams; having her drag up all of those memories to put them on display for a bunch of curious college students? No way.

Neither of them mentioned it until that night, when they were in bed and getting ready to go to sleep. Clint was surprised when, before he could turn off the light, she waved to him to keep it on. _Did you tell her?_

He nodded. _I'm sorry._

_I told you you could. Did she... How did she react?_

_She'd read about the case, back when the trial happened,_ Clint said. _She was surprised that I actually knew the girl who'd brought everything down._ He shrugged. _She was curious, I guess, but she didn't really pry._

Natasha must have seen something in his face, because she signed back, _But?_

_But... she did ask me to ask you – if I was comfortable – whether you would be willing to talk about it to the class. It's... I guess human trafficking is on our syllabus, but she wasn't able to find a guest speaker about it, and now..._ He shrugged, then quickly added, _You don't have to do it. I wasn't even going to ask, but then you brought it up and--_

_I'll do it._

_What? ___He was sure he'd missed some crucial sign.

_I'll do it._

_Why?_

Her face screwed up, and for a moment she looked away. Finally she looked back and said, _Because maybe if I talk about it I can stop reliving it in my head every night._

He pulled her into his arms, and whispered into her ear that it was okay, and that he was sorry, and that he loved her. She didn't say anything in return.

When he turned in his paper after class on Thursday, he told Stacy that Natasha had said yes. He gave her her phone number to call to make the arrangements.

When the day arrived, Natasha got on the T with him to go to class. They'd made sure to leave early to give Natasha a few minutes to talk to his instructor about what was going to happen. Natasha would do most of the talking, with limited time for questions and answers, and she didn't have to answer any question that she wasn't comfortable answering. The most important thing, Stacy said, was that Natasha felt safe. If, at any point, she didn't feel comfortable, she could just let them know and they would redirect or stop entirely.

Clint sat in the front row, and not just so he could see his interpreter. He wanted to make sure that he was clearly visible to Natasha at all times, that she never felt completely alone up there. Because she wasn't. He'd been with her from the beginning, and he would be with her until the end. 

Stacy introduced her as Natalia Romanova (because Natasha had asked her to use her formal name) and gave a little bit of an introduction as to why she was there, and then let her speak for herself.

"First, I want to say I'm sorry if any of you have a hard time understanding me," Natasha said. "My accent is not so bad as it was when first I came to America, but..." She shrugged. "What I am going to tell you still is not easy for me to talk about, and sometimes when I have to say things that are hard to say, my words get tangled up. So if you don't understand, ask and I will try to explain again, better."

And then she began to tell her story, starting with the orphanage in Russia and ending with the trial. The room was almost silent the entire time, and sometimes her words did get jumbled up, crashing together all out of order, and then she would take a breath and go back, putting them right and continuing on. 

When she got to the end, she looked around, and asked, "Does anyone have any questions?"

For a second, there was absolute silence, and stillness. Then a hand went up. 

"Yes?"

"I just... I just wanted to say that I think that you're really brave. Not just... I mean, for going through that? And for finally saying something, and standing up to them, and... and now for talking about it. That's just... really brave."

"Thank you," Natasha said.

"But, like... how? How could you... get through that? I mean, maybe I'm being overly dramatic, or maybe I'm just not as strong as you, but I feel like if I was going through that... that I would just want to die, you know?"

Natasha took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and Clint realized then that there was part of the story that she _had_ left out. "I know," she said. "I do know." Again, there was silence, heavy and dark, and Clint wasn't sure whether she was going to continue or not. And then she looked up, and her eyes fixed on the girl in the back. "One time, I did decide I was done. I was not going to live anymore. I leave my house – no coat, no gloves – and go out in middle of night in winter. I decide that I will die."

"What... what made you change your mind?" someone – not the first girl – asked. 

"I did not change my mind. Someone else decide for me, my life means something. He does not want me to die... so I don't die."

"Who?"

Natasha pointed to him. "Clint. He is my best friend, and he... he did not know all, but he knew something. I think because what he thinks he knows makes him hate me, he does not care. But he finds me. I don't know how. I don't know why he looks for me that night, but he finds me, and he fights with me until I just give up and let him win, and gets me warm, and I live. And I tell him. And then I can be strong because I am not alone."

Clint could feel the eyes on him, and he squirmed. He was glad when someone else raised their hand to ask a question and everyone diverted their attention back to Natasha. 

"How did you feel when you heard that they found – I guess your... the guy who called himself your uncle... that he was guilty?"

"Relief," Natasha said. "I feel relief. But still scared, too, because even if they lock up most of them, there can still be others, and if any of them get out, maybe they will come after me. But... I can't live my life always afraid of what might happen. This is why I decide I will talk about it. This is why I decide I will tell you. Because I am tired of being afraid. I am tired of them still having hold on me. So I tell, and maybe by telling it will be less in my head." She shrugged. "Still, someday maybe I will get call saying they are letting him out, and then... I do not know what will happen then."

Clint hadn't let himself think about that possibility; he hoped if that day ever came it would be a long time down the road. 

There were a few more questions, but finally they ran out of time. People were slow getting up, and Clint thought they might have approached Natasha – maybe to ask questions that they hadn't been comfortable asking in front of the group, or maybe just to say thank you – but they didn't get the chance, because as soon as Stacy dismissed the class, she came over to him and buried herself in his arms. 

"It's okay," he whispered. "It's okay, 'Tasha. You're not alone. You're never alone."

And neither was he, and that was how it was meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. That's the last regular chapter. Epilogue posts on Wednesday.


	58. EPILOGUE

_How did it go?_ , Natasha asked, hardly giving him a minute to set down his bag and unhook Cherno's leash, setting him free to roam the house. _Any problems?_

_No,_ Clint said. _Other than having to remind people that he was working and so they couldn't pet him. I think I met more people at school today than I have in all of the time leading up to this. You would be amazed how many people have dogs at home that they miss._

He knelt down and unclipped the vest that they'd attached patches that said Service Dog and Working – Do Not Pet, because the dog had stayed by his side even after he'd let him loose. Apparently he'd really taken the whole concept that when he was wearing his vest he was on duty seriously... even though really, he was kind of always on duty, since things like the doorbell, the timer on the oven, and the smoke detector could go off at any time.

_I'm glad it went well,_ Natasha said. 

_So am I,_ Clint said. They – mostly he, but other than classes and work, there weren't too many places that they didn't go together – had been working with Cherno more and more outside the house, making sure that his doggie manners were up to where they needed to be to make sure that no one had any reason to doubt his service dog training. Today was the first day that he'd taken the dog with him to class, and he'd expected it to be a lot more of a problem than it had ended up being. He figured the real test would be somewhere like a restaurant, where they might decide letting the dog in was a health code violation or something, but if anyone had thought that maybe he'd been trying to pull a fast one, slapping a vest on his pet just to be able to take him into buildings where he wouldn't otherwise be allowed, they had been too polite to say. 

_How was your day?_ , he asked. 

_Fine,_ she said. _I'm glad it's over, though, and that it's the weekend._

_Me too,_ Clint replied, pulling her into his arms and holding her tight for a moment. "I'm not sure that that will ever change."

She smiled, and if she said anything he didn't hear it, because he'd taken his hearing aids off halfway through his last class, deciding instead to rely on his interpreter and his dog to get him through. He wondered if maybe he would ever get to a point where he just wouldn't bother with the aids at all, but that would make interacting with the world infinitely harder, and he wasn't sure he was truly prepared for that. 

_Are you making dinner or am I?_ , he asked. _Because if it's me, the only dinner I'm making is a call for delivery._

_Indian?_

_Ooh, yeah, we haven't had that in a while. Do they deliver or do we need to pick up?_

_I don't remember,_ she admitted. _I'll check the menu._

They were pleased to discover that the nearby Indian restaurant did, in fact, deliver. Clint went to change into pajama pants while Natasha made the call to place their order. They settled onto the couch to wait, flipping on the TV mostly as background noise for Natasha, and he guessed background visuals for him.

_Did you ever imagine this is where we would end up?_ , Clint asked, then let his hand drop on Natasha's knee where it crossed over his lap. _The day we first met, did you ever think that three years later we would still be together?_

She looked at him, her expression grave. _When we first met, I couldn't imagine **tomorrow** ,_ she said. _So no, I didn't imagine this. And then... even when I started to let myself imagine that there could be something beyond the next day, the next minute, the next breath... I don't think even then I let myself imagine this. It felt too much like hope, and I knew that... I thought I knew that... hope was for fools._

_Well, one could make the argument that I, at least, **am** a fool, so there's that,_ he said, grinning.

She touched his cheek, drawing him in to kiss him softly. _Love makes fools of everyone._

_I didn't know what love was before you,_ Clint said.

_Neither did I._

_Thank you._

_For what?_

_Loving me._

The sign she made was simple, a sign that he doubted they'd invented, but that felt like theirs anyway. She took the single-hand ILY handshape and moved it between their bodies in the sign for 'same'. Usually they used it for, 'I love you too,' but he guessed that this time she meant it as a thanks in return. Not that thanks were necessary; it wasn't like he'd ever really had a choice.

She shifted around until she was in his arms, and he closed his eyes as he held her, just breathing her in. 

When he'd woken up in the hospital, battered and bruised and deaf, and been told that his parents were dead and the circus had left town without him, and that he was being placed in foster care, he'd thought his life was over. 

As it turned out, his life had only just begun. Somehow, somewhere along the line, it had taken on a size and shape that he'd never in his wildest dreams imagined, with foster parents who treated him like their own, and like he mattered, more than his own parents ever had, and a social worker who really did seem to want the best for him, and was willing to listen to him about what that might be. With friends who had become family, who invited him on trips and over for dinner, who called sometimes at very strange hours and with even stranger questions, and who showed up unexpectedly to take over the guest room for a weekend because they just couldn't take their roommate anymore, and who Skyped for an emergency ASL study session. With a house that felt like home, and a dog who was his ears (and occasionally Natasha's – no matter how hard they tried they could not get him to stop alerting her that her alarm was going off in the morning), and his whole life stretched in front of him that was no longer defined by anyone but himself.

And at the center of that was the girl who started out an assignment, and became a friend, and a cause, a crusade, and then his heart, his hope and promise that happily ever after might not just for fairy tales.

Everything had changed... or nearly everything. But some things stayed the same, and they always would.

Carnies looked after their own: quarterbacks named after Norse gods, aspiring divas with daddy issues, wise-cracking agnostics, recovering alcoholic Air Force pilots, escaped cultists with a culinary bent, scientists with anger management issues, egocentric engineers, asthmatic artist, black belt biologists with borrowed hearts, slightly neurotic future CEOs... and best and most of all, Russian girls raised by wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three years ago today, I posted the first chapter of Ghosts That We Knew. It was Clintasha week on Tumblr, and there were prompts for every day of the week, and Sunday was an AU. I wrote the first chapter of this story, and posted it, not knowing if anyone would show any interest, not knowing if anyone would care... not having any idea, at the time, what it would become.
> 
> Three years later, I have written three novel-length works, which total (with all of the bonus chapters, deleted scenes, etc. added in) over half a million words. With very few exceptions, I have managed to meet my goal of posting a chapter every single Sunday, and sometimes it was more often than that when the story required it in order to be kept in real time as much as possible.
> 
> I love these characters. They started based roughly on the characters by the same name in the MCU and comics, but they pretty quickly became my own, and they have become a part of me. Not writing about them every week... it's going to be weird. This story has been the scaffolding that held my life up when everything else seemed to be crumbling sometimes. As frustrating as it sometimes was, trying to force my brain to make words to post some weeks, many times it was the comments that I received that gave me the boost that I needed to get through the day.
> 
> So thank you. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Thank you for coming on this journey with me, and thank you for sticking with it when I know that sometimes there were times when things seemed to drag, or meander, where maybe you started to wonder if there was any more story to tell. I know that I had those moments, and I appreciate you all sticking with me through them. 
> 
> Thank you for every kudos, every comment, every recommendation. Thank you for loving these characters, _my_ characters, as much as I do. Thank you for rooting for them, and grieving with them, and supporting them, and me, with each new twist and turn. 
> 
> This has been a labor of love, and giving it up... I'm crying. I am really, truly, sincerely crying. Because this has been one of the hardest things I've ever done, and also one of the best. But all good things must come to an end, and we've hit that point, and it's time. There may be bonus chapters, one shots to catch up with them, things like that as inspiration strikes, but for the main story, this is it. Today's the day.
> 
> I love you all. Those who comment every week and those who never have. Those who tell all of their friends and those who keep this story their own little secret. Those who have been with me from the very first chapter on October 7, 2012, and those who are reading this after it's all done, gulping it down in one (long... very long...) sitting.
> 
> This isn't goodbye. I'll keep writing, and if you're interested in wherever fandom takes me next, I hope you'll follow. Otherwise, this story will always be there for you, as it's been there for me. And the offer for bonus chapters, deleted scenes, etc. that I made ages ago still stands. Ask in the comments, on this or any chapter, and I will add it to my list. I can't promise it will happen, or happen quickly, but I will try.
> 
> Elsewhere on the internet, I can be found on Tumblr as ironicsnowflake, or if you have something to say that you'd prefer not to make public, you can reach me at my AO3 username at Gmail.
> 
> Thank you, again, for all you have given me. I never could have imagined when I started where it would end, but we've come full circle, and so all that's left to say, I think, is goodbye for now, and all my love. ♥


End file.
